One destiny
Placed us here
In this land
We tried to run away
We tried to forget
And we couldn't
Leave
We traveled far
Across the sea
It was good
But we returned
We tried to bloom
In a foreign land
And we couldn't
Leave
One destiny
Placed us here
In this land
I could have watched the national ceremony commemorating the third anniversary of October 7 at home, but something in me felt the need to attend the ceremony, especially this year, which felt heavier after the last two years were focused on returning the hostages. So I walked with my mom to the park, grateful there were no security limits because of a possible missile attack, something we don't take for granted. The ceremony followed the format of "Songs in the Square" and other memorial ceremonies, featuring solemn segments on lost lives followed by a song, which was often related to the segment, giving time to reflect on what we heard. This felt especially strong when we saw a segment showing the stories of Haim Ben Aryeh, a school bus driver from Karmei Katif, and Abed Al-Karim Al-Nasasra, who worked alongside his father and brother as a shuttle driver in the Bedouin town of Kuseife. Both received urgent requests to help evacuate civilians on October 7th. Neither hesitated, and they got into their vehicles. Partygoers whom Abed drove to the Nova festival the night before called Abed for help, and he said to his wife: "I know it's dangerous, but I need to help these people." Abed had already brought one group home and gone back for another group when he was shot by Hamas terrorists on his way. Haim received a call to evacuate children and people with disabilities from Kibbutz Be'eri after the massacre there and told his wife, "If they need me, I'm going". Haim was deeply traumatized by the sights of the shocked children and the smell of fire and blood. He told his wife that what really broke him on the drive to the Dead Sea was the complete silence; no one cried. The sights and smells didn't leave him, and a few weeks later he took his own life in the bus he loved so much.
It was very moving to see Valerie Hamaty sing this Ofra Haza cover together with Ran Danker after hearing the tragic stories of Abed and Haim and seeing their families in the audience. Right afterwards, Omri Shifroni, one of the founders of the Kumu movement that organized the ceremony, gave a speech:
October 6th, 2023 - Kibbutz Be'eri's community celebration. A peaceful Friday evening on the Kibbutz; everyone gathered in the community hall, singing songs from the past - songs of a different life. Nothing hinted that the glass of wine in hand would be the last of life, as we knew it. The morning of October 7th: the house is shaking. We run to the safe room while the rapid-response team rushes to fight. Eleven members. Six weapons. Hundreds of terrorists. At first, we didn't grasp the magnitude of the disaster. But at 6:29 a.m., our lives were turned upside down. We hid children in closets to shield them from the murderers in our living rooms. We defended our families with bare hands, with almost no means to fight back. And for you - Liel and Yanai, pure and beloved children - there was no protection. Even Aunt Ilus, who had embraced you and shielded you like a mother, could not save you from that hell. I will never forget the broken voice of Abuya - your grandfather, who was also a father figure and a friend to you. The knowledge that he couldn't reach you was just as lethal as the bullets that pierced the safe room door - and the armor of my all-powerful, strong, and good uncle.
My beloved family, you should not have been murdered. None of you. You were all alone. Defenseless... and I, too, was unable to help. Your story touched the heart of an entire nation. Liel, your final words have stayed with us. You asked for nothing grand. You simply wanted to go back to school. To the ordinary life of a girl your age. But you were already trapped in a hell of fire, smoke, and fear.
That morning, the systems collapsed; the state failed to function. During those long hours in the safe room, the trust that served as our anchor shattered into pieces. But there was something else, too: Fighters pushed forward, broke through, and finally arrived. Civilians stepped up wholeheartedly, and we felt the full force of Israeli mutual solidarity. Those drops of kindness turned into a massive wave that gave us the strength to believe in this place again. But mutual solidarity alone is not enough. To rebuild trust, we also need the truth. We must know what happened. Without investigating the truth, we cannot heal. And we cannot ensure it never happens again. This must not become a political argument. It is a moral obligation. An obligation rooted in our values. And a security imperative. For three years, the People of Israel have carried the weight of fear, brokenness, and pain - and one relentless question: How did this happen to us? We will not give up on finding the answer. This is our test! And we can grow from this test, too. But only if we look the truth in the eye. Only if we learn, and only if we make things right. And amidst all this brokenness, we also witnessed the most beautiful part of who we are. Strangers became family. People opened their homes, carried out rescues, reported for reserve duty, and volunteered at hotels, donated, cooked, and gathered supplies. We held each other up while everything around us shook. We must not lose it.
Beloved family, you left us a clear legacy: Ilus - we will keep your kindness alive in the world. Abuya - like you, we will respect every person. Yanai and Liel - your deaths will not be in vain; in your names, we will build a worthy society here. The community festival will never look the same again, and we, too, will never be who we once were. But we can choose to be better and more worthy. From here, we rise. From here, we mend. From here, we rebuild.
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