We can’t shut the window on October 7th

What could feel more home-like? A perfect tableau: a freshly baked pie, charming knick-knacks, and the peaceful greenery outside the kitchen window… an incomprehensible contrast to what my mind knows happened here.

Kibbutz Re’eim. Peaceful. Lovely. 97% heaven.

An older couple invited us in for coffee. They told us about their children and grandchildren. About a teenager from their kibbutz who was held hostage in Gaza for 54 days. “He’s free, but he’s not right. Other relatives of his were taken from Be’eri. His aunt was murdered. He’s not okay.”

And then they happily showed us their charming home—filled with art, carefully chosen decorations, and handcrafted wooden furniture. The new TV room they built, the garden… and then we came to the mamad. The safe-room.

“We were here 26 hours on that day.” October 7th. The day of the invasion.

The wife told me softly: “The cleaning woman opened the window today. I haven’t opened it since that day.”

My eyes scanned the small room—neat, clean, arranged like a welcoming guest bedroom. Any visitor would feel comfortable here. But in my mind’s eye I saw a flash of the invaders running up and down the beautiful lawn outside, the kibbutz guard fighting desperately to defend the residents, being trapped in this little room.

Remembering something I did not see, I did not experience, my heart was pounding loudly in my chest.

“You were here, and there was a war outside your window? Fighters running here, just outside?”

“Yes” she nodded. “At 8:00 am I already knew that my friend, the friend of my heart, was murdered. I couldn’t take knowing that. So, I took a sleeping pill.”

Her husband filled in the blanks: two houses over, a couple was murdered. His wife’s dearest friend lived three houses away. “We don’t know why they didn’t come into our home.”

We sat at their kitchen table, ate delicious pie, and drank coffee.

Such lovely people. Such horrific stories.

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