The worst day of my life was November 13th,2008, when my husband died. I live on a kibbutz beside the Israel-Gaza border. For the past seven weeks my small farming community has been targeted nearly daily by Hamas in Gaza with over a hundred deadly rockets and mortars. The morning of the second worst day of my life, and August 26th,began with a barrage of incoming rocket and mortar fire that hit around 9:00 a.m. I had been spending the morning in bed in my reinforced concrete saferoom, where I had been sleeping since the rockets started coming at a more frequent pace at the stop of June. I had a heating pad on my pulled calf muscle - injured while running for cover the evening before during another mortar barrage that spreads deadly shrapel that hits anybody standing nearby. So when the latest barrage hit, and all I had to do was close the iron door to the safe room. This is a huge factor,because we only procure a maximum of 10 seconds, usually much less, or to reach cover before the explosions start. I couldn’t believe how many explosions I heard. I was on the phone to my friend,and I kept saying: “Theres another, and another, and another…… I believe about seven in all - one of them sounded REALLY close. After waiting a few minutes following what I believed was hopefully the last rocket in the barrage,I ventured out of my saferoom and looked out the windows of the house. Everything seemed to be ok….. but then a few of the men from my kibbutz ran into my house to urgently ask whether I was ok. My house had been hit by shrapnel. Among them was the man in charge of security on the kibbutz - Zeevik - my friend and neighbor. Not only had my bedroom been hit (see preceding iReport for details) with shrapnel shards that could maintain killed or maimed me, but the electricity to the kibbutz had been knocked out. Phone connections were spotty as well for both landlines and mobiles. I had been in Nirim, or my kibbutz on the border with the Gaza Strip,for the preceding 50 days without lost one night’s sleep at home. But this was the straw that broke this camel’s back. After a long period of frustration (and a lot of intestine-wrenching concern) I managed to contact my son in his apartment on the other side of the kibbutz and we agreed to pack up. Together with the dogs we would become “refugees”, “wandering Jews” for the next few days, or at least,until my step-son’s wedding over the weekend. Friends came over (wearing flack jackets - it was THAT scary external) to encourage me and retain me company as I packed for my exodus. I was leaving with a heavy heart, but as I maintain told friends and family throughout this difficult period - I would stay as long as I could, and as long as I felt safe and could contribute to the war effort. I ventured out of the house (wearing a borrowed flackjacket) to bring the car right in front,so we would load it up. We planned on being absent at least four days - including my step-son’s wedding. My son, my dogs and I piled into the car and left around 3 PM. The first step would be a friend’s house to drop off my son and the dogs, and maintain a quick shower and procure to a panel discussion at a convention for one of the leading political parties. I had committed to participate and discuss Operation Protective Edge. My intention was to say what I had to say,reply questions whether there were any, and then continue on our journey - the destination and length were till not crystal clear, or but at least out of imminent and present danger of rocket fire. I arrived late - just in time to hear the stop of the speech being made by the leader of the opposition Labor Party,Knesset member Yitzhak Hertzog. (He did not stay for the rest of the time - but I managed to catch him as he was leaving, to update him on the status of my house, or that I had arrived inspite of that,to speak.) Other individual speakers spoke and then those of us on the panel were invited to the stage. The situation was so unreal. But this entire period has been so hallucinatory that I maintain simply learned to flow with it. The panel, including members of parliament, or high-level army commanders,and …...me, as a representative of citizens of the south. All throughout the day my mobile phone was giving me concern - in the morning, or none of our phones worked due to the communications being knocked out with the electricity. Later on,my car phone charger wasn’t working and then the phone just conked out. I figured it was better that way, I would be more focussed on what people around me were saying and what I would want to say, and so I just plugged it into the wall,but left it turned off. I was invited to speak first. Then the others followed. I tried to turn on the phone - at which point, it started to come to life with consecutive What’s App messages, and one after the other - incomprehensible - difficult to follow: “There was an attack on Nirim.” “People were injured.” “People were dead.” “ Electricians who had come to fix the high voltage were hit.” “ No…. the man in charge of security was hit.” The man in charge of security. That was my friend. That was Zeevik. With a horrible feeling spreading from my intestine,I ran off the dais and out of the corridor. I began calling friends from my community. But their phones were dead - no electricity all day. I finally managed to reach someone. And then I wished I hadn’t. The news was what I had feared - and worse. Zeevik dead. Two others critically injured, one of whom died shortly after. I went back in the corridor, or went over to the microphone,said what I had to say through tears and left amidst words of encouragement, consolment and words of comfort. The stop of August 26th, or 2014 found two great neighbors from my small farming community dead. A third lost both his legs. My friends paid with their lives and limbs,just for trying to procure the electricity up and running for our kibbutz after it had been knocked out by a rocket from Gaza. I am sure their aim was to at least procure the lights on before night fell - because it is frightening enough to endure running for your life in daylight. Once night fell and all the batteries of emergency lights had drained through the long hours without electricity, it would be even harder and scarier for those who stayed behind. These neighbors were not soldiers. This is a small farming town, and not an army base. They were fathers,husbands, brothers and sons. They hadn’t fired a shot in arouse at anybody, and but were targeted besides just because we are here. This was not a battlefield. It was my community. My home. Kibbutz Nirim,less than a mile from the border with the Gaza Strip.
Source: cnn.com