A Visit to Kibbutz Be'eri
A Chanukah Story of Resilience
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
Last winter, I had the privilege of visiting Kibbutz Be'eri—one of the kibbutzim in southern Israel that was attacked on October 7. As a Jew living in Israel, I am among the many who have spent the past year mourning, volunteering, crying and hoping.Â
And I am one of the lucky ones. My family settled in Jerusalem—about 70 miles from Be’eri—when we moved here eight years ago, and we have since built our life here. This choice of where to live was the only difference between me and the woman whose ravaged house I walked through. The mother who died alongside her son as her daughter and husband fought for their lives and, against all odds, survived.Â
There is a fabric that connects all the Jewish people. It doesn’t always feel thick or strong—but in times of chaos, it emerges with force. Today, I live in a country tightly wound by this rope—with all of us mobilizing various armies to fight the emotional, physical, and spiritual war being waged against us.Â
Never has Israel felt so connected. Never have Jews across the globe felt so intertwined. And yet, I was safe on October 7. And Kibbutz Be’eri—just 90 minutes away—was not.Â
As I walked through the remnants of a home once full of love, I saw myself everywhere: in the school roster on the fridge and the children’s books on the shelf. In the cheap Max Stock toys in the playroom and the Ikea bins under the TV. In the dishes in the sink and the mess in the kitchen—the aftermath of hosting a meal for 20.
Each step over burnt rubble uncovered a part of me I didn’t know was in Be’eri. The darkness engulfed my soul; I felt deeply connected to their despair. Their life was my life — just somewhere else. It could have been me. It felt like me. A part of it was me.Â
Shortly after my visit was Chanukah—the Festival of Lights. On Chanukah, we celebrate the power of hope, and commemorate a miraculous victory over those who sought to destroy us.Â
At the start of the war, I clung to hope. It was my power source—motivating me to be a good parent, check in on my friends. But as time went on, and the darkness deepened, summoning hope became more of a challenge.Â
My visit to Be’eri, so close to Chanukah, felt more purposeful and timely than I could have imagined. Each night of the holiday, I forced myself to light a candle, sing with my family and relinquish just a bit of the hold the darkness had on me. Each night, I also thought of all those who couldn't light a candle. And I thought of those who could, but whose darkness grew deeper nonetheless.Â
If their darkness became my darkness, then my light could become their light. This is what I thought about as I watched the candles flicker. Even now, a part of me is still in Be’eri. As we prepare for our second Chanukah since the war began, I resolve to hope for those who can’t; to be the light they cannot find.
Jessica Ovadia is a Jewish mother of four, living in Jerusalem. She was born in Maryland and moved to Israel with her husband and children eight years ago. She works as a communication consultant, generally in the healthcare space. After October 7, she applied her skills as a writer and communicator to help organizations in Israel and abroad move through this challenging moment.
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
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