"Accidentally or deliberately, the terrorists targeted the old and forgotten neighborhoods of Ofakim. Where immigrants from the Soviet Union, Caucasians, Ethiopians, elderly people were murdered. To this day, it shakes me deeply, and I feel very privileged and honored to have access to these stories, and also awe of the responsibility of dealing with these materials. Who's going in and who's not, how to decide whose story is more important?"
Nadav Mishali, director and filmmaker, is a hero with certificates. Among pop dolls of movie stars, there is a sign in his office crowning him one of the heroes of the '23 year of Keshet and the National Lottery. He received his degree for many years of activity and the fulfillment of an old childhood dream: the establishment of a cinematheque in Ofakim. But October 7 reversed the creators.
"The first week I screened movies for children in shelters, but at Ariel Bilya's funeral, his brother told me, 'There are many interesting stories here in the neighborhood, and you make movies, come document it.' Deep down it was hard for me, I felt it was immoral to pick up a camera and aim at people at such an hour. But the conversation with him spurred me on, I understood that a very significant event was happening here, and that this neighborhood would not look the way it is in two or three weeks. I started wandering around and felt in some abandoned amusement park like this."
Almost three months later, it seems that all the stories of wonders and miracles of that day have already been told and told. That all those in need have already been assisted, cared for or evacuated. But on the margins of the media sphere, the Mishor Gefen neighborhood in Ofakim remained out of the picture. True, Rachel is already a well-known brand, and rumors are circulating in the streets of the southern city that her story is on its way to becoming a feature film. Everyone is praising, and rightly so, but quietly wondering, what about the stories of the dead, the wounded, the heroes and the rest of the neighborhood?
"Rachel's story is truly amazing. I was in her house and it was all perforated, I don't know how she is alive. But do not forget, Ofakim is located between kibbutzim and moshavim that have always caught the spotlight. The test of the hour is how to not exclude peripheral cities and leave them without a media voice."
But didn't we bury the story of kibbutzim versus cities in a mass grave on October 7?
"Really... And what did the media do? They came to Ofakim and cast people according to the stereotype of the periphery. There is a disconnect here in the inability to hear and listen, to understand that there are other sides to Ofakim, and more colors to the city's people, and again they are trying to get into us about the fact that the mayor is from the Likud. What is the connection? They wanted to get a message across. Once again this 'sexy' story of poverty and a periphery that votes against itself. Sometimes all kinds of enlightened people call me and tell me in amazement, 'Oh, I really want to tell the story of the city.' And it makes me feel bad, because what do you need to tell my story? Don't talk above me. Talk to me, I'm here."
I, too, have a constant feeling that the line between exploitation and voyeurism and documentation is particularly elusive this time. The fact that you are restrained changes that?
"Obviously, my gaze is from within, because they know me and I know them. It allows me to be something more than just another reporter who comes to pick up an item and go home. I don't cut, I don't direct, I don't ask the questions, but I let the situation guide the camera. On the other hand, if a Tel Aviv director now comes to tell Ofakim's story, chances are he will be welcomed."
Written in leather
The new road to the east shortened the distance between Ofakim and Be'er Sheva. Contractors, real estate professionals and investors began to build a new city, and many Be'er Sheva who wanted quality of life at a peripheral price turned their eyes to the modern suburb. Shopping centers and a mall have been established, but at the end of the road awaits horizons "of yesteryear". No matter how much the rain will soup up the cities that are always developing, in the Israeli consciousness the commercial center will remain "dusty" forever, the flowers for Meir Ariel. I go through the shops. Pizza, fabrics, household items, tattoos, department store. Wait, what? "Dragon Play Tattoo - Tattoo Studio", in Ofakim. Deal with it. At the entrance sits Eitan Shitrit, dressed in stylish black and with the haircut of a samurai in the desert. Ofimi from birth, who is totally not surprised.
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"Ever since I was a child, my dream was to open the first tattoo studio in Ofakim. So it was delusional, but I did it! Back in high school, I used to build tattoo machines and tattoo the guys in my class. After living in Eilat for 16 years and being a dancer and choreographer and working in the field of the stage, I returned home and opened a tattoo studio here, in Ofakim."
Why here?
"I was outside, I saw everything, I did everything. But over the years, another shell of innocence decreases, and the ego matures, and then you realize that your family is everything. So I decided to go back and live close to my parents who are growing up. And now they need you, and it's time to give back to them and be there for them. I've been painting since childhood, and I got to paint on people, so this place is my walking and living gallery. You walk around the supermarket – here's your tattoo, Ethan, what a beauty."
When Shitrit discovers that I have come to see the Mishor Hagefen neighborhood, he smiles a thin and bitter smile: "You turned out well, I'm from the neighborhood," and naturally, without asking, things start to come out. "The way they started shooting at an automaton and shouting 'Allahu Akbar,' and you see a drone above you observing, you realize it's not a mistake. Suddenly you see green ribbons on your head, and it's something on a scale that no one imagined would happen. In one second you wake up to a movie that they didn't prepare you for and you don't have a written text, and not just any movie, but a Call of Duty action movie, for real."
And what's the first thing you do when you realize it?
"I quietly shouted to my mother, 'Leave everything and come!' I didn't want to tell her terrorists, but she understood. I heard shots from over the wall and realized they were close, so I took my dog in one hand and my mother on the other, looked for a minute to escape, and took them out into the street. Luckily my car was parked there, I pushed my mother and dog into the car, and as I peek to the side I see a terrorist coming at me. I start and try to fly away, and I see the terrorist in the rearview mirror raise his weapon as I walk away, and he aims at me and then fires a burst. Fortunately, he's missing out."
A piece of luck.
"When I left the neighborhood, I took the left to my grandfather's house, and that was my second luck that day. If I took a right, I would encounter terrorists in the second Toyota, and then bye-bye. Suddenly I realize my neighborhood, the Goren, the quietest neighborhood in the country, a neighborhood full of new and old immigrants, without any snobby thing, that's what's beautiful about this city, everyone on the street will say hello, how are you, and hug you like it's a kibbutz, and suddenly my neighborhood is full of blood everywhere and full of the bad metallic sound of gunshots."
, Photo: David Peretz
As if to illustrate Sheetrit's words, a passing man stands next to Sheetrit and asks if he has managed to fix his car. Clichés and reality tend to mix between the sands. "It took me a month to get home. Every time I tried to get close to the neighborhood I would shake, turn around and not find myself, I had to overcome a lot of things to get back there and be able to sleep at home."
By the way, do you recognize changes in tattoos after October 7th?
"Sure. Before that I used to tattoo a lion, an eagle, a Messi. Suddenly people want a Star of David and the State of Israel and to commemorate the date."
I took a picture of someone with a date tattoo, and one of the attendees said, "I don't understand why it's good, I can never forget that date." How do you understand the desire to undermine October 7?
"A tattoo is a way of expression. Sometimes they are also a form of therapy. A lot of mentally ill people come to me who use tattoos to deal with something in their psyche. As a tattoo artist you are also a kind of psychologist. I think people want to heal something in the soul and commemorate something so that they see it all the time, whether it's their loved ones who were murdered or something that symbolizes this event in their lives."
"There are other heroes here"
On the other side of the shopping center, shopkeepers are intrigued by Shitrit's conversation with the media in the shopping area, not in the neighborhood itself. Shitrit calls the neighbors for a conversation: the barber Eyal Hillel and the Wasabi man of Ofakim - Nevo Ben Hamo. Their appearance and occupation makes it clear that each of them, in their own way, is the new horizontal that the standard media refuses to see and contain as part of the city. Local entrepreneurs and cultural innovators. They, like many other residents of the city, are not sure how to deal with the media that comes to sniff in the shopping center, and are a little suspicious of its intentions. When they discover that I'm from Beersheba, and that I've even eaten Ben Hamo's sushi in the past, the two open up completely.
"It's strange," says Ben-Hamo, "as if on the one hand what you remembered about us just now, and on the other hand even now you don't really see it in the center of things. You see mainly the story of the kibbutzim, of Sderot, but somehow Ofakim feels like it's just Rachel's story. And honestly I don't wish on anyone what she went through, and well done to her for how she coped, but there were many other reserved heroes that day. They, too, deserve to be told their story. Isn't it?"
Rachel's house, photo: David Peretz
Shitrit nods and adds: "Personally, I feel that the privacy of the people in the neighborhood has gone. I go out with the dog and suddenly see another photographer and more people coming to see and take a tour of Rachel's House from Ofakim. Listen, I'm not in a place to be miserable, there's no problem with them coming and seeing and getting to know each other. But it's time for them to see Ofakim in its good stuff as well. There are a lot of reporters who come looking for the 'juice,' but there's also the good stuff."
Meanwhile, it's lunchtime, and Hillel, in his punk rapper looks, pulls out the menu of a new pizzeria that has opened in the city. Friends are considering whether to order a Tunisian pizza. What is it, I wonder, and the answer: "Well, you know... Tuna, hard-boiled egg, black olives, lemon."
I mean, lateral discharge, I respond. "Nope! Tunisian pizza," they reply.
I give up turning my back on the future, and go for it safe with Ben Hamo's stir-fry and good sushi.
No dwarves will come
The situation was new and difficult. All around the sirens howled like crazy. Grad missiles fell for the first time on horizons. In the absence of a safe room, a concrete pipe was used to shield wear and tear. Yahaloma Zachut and her family sat and waited, and waited, and waited. Until Yahaloma realized: No soldiers, social workers, aid workers or savior dwarves would come. Instead of shrugging her shoulders, Zachut decided that evening to set up an alert squad to help those who did not help them. She looked for the phone, and without hesitation called the Ministry of Defense and said: "Hello, I'm a restrained diamond, can you train us?" More than a decade has passed since Yahaloma retired from the army, and since then she has devoted her time to civil society in Ofakim, the Negev, and Israel as a whole.
With geographically different birth figures, it is reasonable to assume that Zachut's management and organizational skills would have parachuted her into a senior position in the Israeli economy. But someone who only at the age of 50 completed matriculation while raising five children, and now holds a master's degree, is a classic case of a human diamond, one of many, who happened to be born in Ofakim and doomed to be the invisible hand of invisible life. Instead of dimming in the soft sand, Yahaloma chose to carve out her future without waiting for "someone to come and save us." And after she returns from a conference of the Periphery Movement, we meet at the Resilience Center established by the late Moshe Ohayon, one of the dead of Ofakim.
"It's really symbolic that we will meet here," Yahaloma says. "Ohayon established this place for the residents of Ofakim. With a senior job in the center of the country, he could have long ago left the city, but chose to stay and fight for this place spiritually, and eventually physically. He and his son paid with their lives for going out to defend their neighbors in the city."
We drive towards the dark sunset at the edge of Ofakim - the Mishor Hagefen neighborhood. Red paints the streets with blood today. Tzahal Street connects to Israel's heroes, through Eli Cohen, until finally we reach Kibbutz Galuyot. The symbolism here kills. "The terrorists came with maps," says Zachut, "but they made a mistake at the entrance. Instead of going to the police, they entered one entrance too early, and like that..."
, Photo: David Peretz
Media people and Opel tourists no longer need a navigation app. Graffiti on the walls of the housing complexes directs our way to the heart of the event. The closer you get, the bigger the inscriptions. "The people of Israel live," psalms and curses to terrorists. Still, nothing prepares you for the moment when you turn right onto Tamar Street and suddenly enter a war zone. The walls of the houses are sprayed with gunfire, shields are spread everywhere, residents sit on the street, drink coffee at dusk, smoke and mostly talk in flashes. Wherever you look, you will see a memorial corner on the façade of the houses. A poster flutters in the wind with a picture of the fallen and their story, where they fell. In the parking lot, a father teaches his daughter to ride a pink bike among the monuments.
"This commemoration is very important," says Zachut. "What is the difference between IDF space and regular restrained spaces? So a reserved person donated his money and made a memorial to everyone who fell in the neighborhood where he fell. Some near their homes, some near others' homes. To give Ofakim's grief a place as well."
Isn't it strange that life is a constant reminder of what happened here?
"This is the story of this neighborhood from here and forever. With or without the picture, they'll never get out of it."
At 6:40 A.M., they reached Ofakim
As soon as we get out of the car with the camera, some of the residents of the neighborhood put a pen on Yahaloma with requests and questions, and they question me: What newspaper are you from? "There was a lot of communication here," someone at Chavis explains to me, "and you can't help but see that everyone is directing it in their own direction. If they are anti-Netanyahu, then they will try to force him out of the most guilty and wrong through the interviewees. And enough, we're not actors in their play."
She is silent for a moment, her azure eyes looking far into the evening. "Look, there was a failure here," she emerges, "and we must be held accountable, no doubt. But as a woman of faith, with a hand on her heart, everything is from God. God runs the world, and with all the disagreements we've had lately, I don't know what to think... But we saw visible miracles here, like a bullet fired at gas canisters that hit where there was no balloon. If they hadn't taken that balloon, I wouldn't be standing here today," she shakes her head and asks me not to take her picture, "for modesty reasons."
There is no shortage of those who want to tell their story with a name and an open face. "Impression: Shuki Yosef. Anyone who doesn't know his horse's son from the pita bread doesn't know Ofakim."
"At half-past six there was the first alarm," he begins.
"No, it was 6:31 a.m.," his neighbor Yehiel Ezequiel tells him.
"What does it matter in what minute?!" annoys Yosef, "the main thing was the first alarm and then another alarm and another and no falls. And I say, what is it? But it was coordinated. They came prepared with maps, they knew there were no shelters here. There was a photo drone they were working with, and I hear it buzzing and say to myself, who is this cheeky kid who picks up a drone at six o'clock in the morning on a Saturday?"
"At twenty-seven they reached Ofakim," Ezequiel continues.
Where did they come from? Ezequiel jumps up, grabs my hand and leads me on the full tour. "Here, this is the home of the Billia family. The father moved his children from the window to another house until he was killed. And here Moshe Ohayon and his son Eliad were murdered, and here Israel Chana was murdered. Here, look at this man, Sammy." Ezequiel catches an elderly man with a white beard, a sash and a sash, walking briskly down the street. "It's a hero as well! Two terrorists grabbed him, took him one on each side, until he told them, so far, thank you very much, and just went to the side and left them looking at him stunned. Tell him, Sammy."
Nevo Ben Hamo, Wasabi Restaurant, Photo: David Peretz
Sami smiles innocently as a child, his language is mixed with Romanian and Hebrew, his fluency is unclear. He finishes and continues his clumsy walk through the streets of the neighborhood. Ezequiel whispers: "The terrorists came here lit up, it's a waste of time, they were completely crazy." We arrive at the main attraction of the tour: "Look, this is Rachel's house." There is no need to really mention the matter, since even more than two months later it is a pilgrimage site. A group of boys with kippahs stand and look at the orange house. The orange walls are sprayed with gunfire, the windows are gaping, and the house is completely empty. They hesitate for a moment, until finally one of them makes a cancel gesture, climbs the wall and jumps into the house, and the rest follows him. Through the windows, I see the boys taking selfies and marking "V" with their fingers.
"Come, come," Ezequiel tells me, "come and see more."
Wait a second, what's the purpose of all this? After all, you've seen it so many times, we've interviewed you so many times, what pushes you to do this round again?
Ezequiel stands by the wall for a moment and ponders. "Because the media, they forgot us. They came, saw, took pictures, walked, and that's what they forgot."
What do you want them to do, I ask him, to move here? Will they broadcast an open studio?
Neighbors Ilana Buchnik and Mazal Yosef join the conversation, and the three speak simultaneously in an erupting storm, until the night of things becomes one voice.
"First of all, let them see us! Horizons! Forget about her. How many residents were murdered here? 52 in one day? Why aren't we on the map? Just like people talk all day about the kibbutzim, why don't they talk about Ofakim? Was it forgotten and goodbye? They didn't evacuate us all, they didn't give us psychological treatment. Where is assistance? Donations? So tell me, why are they bringing the aid trucks into Gaza and not sending them here?"
What do you mean? Psychologist, social worker, nothing?
Yahaloma stands on the sidelines, hears, and slowly her eyes burn. "When they decided there was no sweeping evacuation, every person here is a story unto themselves." The sealed faces of the inhabitants of the vine plain do not even mock my despicable innocence.
Two Houses After Rachel
"Look at Shushi," she points to a woman standing silently on the edge of the circle, almost swallowed up by the shadow of the shield. "Her husband Avi was murdered on the balcony of their house, she sat in the room for 20 hours with her children, the house open and the body outside. She was evacuated to a hotel for five days and they brought her home, her children didn't see a psychologist."
Shoshi Hatuel and her son Yagel, Photo: David Peretz
The blows of the vine plain are coming slowly. The whirlwind of details, the stories of horror and heroism that mingle, the everyday and the delusional, the blood and the sublime, everything slowly builds up until the knockout in the temples becomes tangible. All the talk about "Israel before" and "Israel after" is like a garlic peel thrown in the sand. One thing doesn't change: Whatever you do, don't be born into an indefinable community in some neighborhood on the outskirts of a city in the forgetfulness of Israeli life.
That's right, I ask Shoshi Hatuel. Hatuel nods slowly. "My eldest daughter and I received psychological treatment, but the little ones didn't, they told me there was no manpower."
She invites me into her house, and it is beautiful and neat. At the entrance to the rooms hang the hopes of the house: health, love, success, luck, blessing, abundance. Until you notice the bullet holes in the ceiling. "The bullets came in from outside, the whole house was glass, as I could I ran away with the children, I couldn't stay one minute longer. I realized that people were going to a hotel, I called the municipality representative and they offered me a week in Eilat. Thursday is coming, my house is completely destroyed, and I didn't know where I was going to go and soon Shabbat, how do I get organized? I asked us to do Shabbat in Eilat. I was told, 'No, there are other people who are supposed to go to the hotel.' But they're from a neighborhood that hasn't been affected at all, so what do they need a hotel?"
Why are there still bullet holes in the ceiling?
"Because no one talked to me, they didn't tell me anything. You know, there were a lot of politicians and cameras in Rachel's house, and I'm just two houses behind her. My husband was murdered and my house is still destroyed, so why didn't anyone come to fix it? Luckily, my brother came and collected the glass from the floor so we could go in. I come here every day with the children and at the end of the day go back to Beersheba. They told me it was good to get the kids back to normal, to their place, but we can't sleep here. One night we tried. After an hour, we were all in the living room, looking at the TV cameras we had put outside, and with every shadow of a flag waving outside, the children said to me, 'Mom, Mom, terrorist!'"
What do you most want to be helped with?
"Let me have a safe room and take care of my children, that's it," she collects tears.
"You are a hero," Yahaloma tells her, "if only he had accompanied this family, everything would have looked different. It is not clear why, in the case of fallen IDF soldiers, the Ministry of Defense handles everything, and the victims of hostilities are left to drown in bureaucracy. There are children here with anxiety who need an answer, and now."
Hatuel is silent. Evening falls, and a neighbor brings couscous to the children and offers us food and drink. I look at a picture of Shoshi and Avi hugging. "I got married when I was 20, in November we were going to celebrate 25 years of marriage. My father said to me, 'Wait Shushi, what a big surprise I'll make you.' And here we got the biggest surprise." Her face stops on the verge of crying, somewhere outside one of the girls falls in the yard and starts crying loudly. Hatuel wanted to check. "Nothing happened, everything is fine," the neighbor tells the crying girl. "Wrong, I got hit hard," she replies, continuing to cry.
It is with a heavy heart that I say goodbye to the Hatuel family. Outside, the night expelled the people of the vine plain to their homes. From all sides you can see and hear the news studios analyzing the situation all the way to Zera. Soldiers are killed, kibbutzim move to the city, while here, on the vine plain in Ofakim, Hamas reality TV refugees try to get used to the hallucination of reality in another sleepless night, full of nightmares and waking anxieties.
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