My friend Raquel has begun of late to open her texts to me here with, “What are we feeling today?” To which I respond, “What are we not feeling?” A response born from what has become a daily cycle through a spectrum of often simultaneous and contradictory emotions. Joyfulness and pain. Optimism and pessimism. Hope and dismay. Fear and faith. 

That was certainly the case for me on last week’s three-day Canadian National Leadership Solidarity Mission to Israel, jointly sponsored by CIJA and JFC-UIA for professional and leadership from these organizations, as well as five Canadian MPs.  

Anyone who has ever been on a mission knows that they have full agendas, are long on experiences, information and access--and short on sleep. Last week’s mission was no exception. The informative speakers and panelists included academics in law and history, Zionist activists, thinkers, and leaders in trauma, mental health, youth engagement and minority rights. There was, as well, Amira Ahronovich, CEO & Director General of the Jewish Agency for Israel, and notable Israeli politicians and military personnel, including a former prime minister, Naftali Bennett; Speaker of the Knesset MK Amir Ohana; Deputy Mayor of Jerusalem Fleur Hassan-Nahoum; Mayor of Sderot Allon Davidi; former IDF Major General (res.) and Chairman of the Jewish Agency Doron Almog, and former IDF Brigadier General (res.) Yossi Kuperwasser.  We also heard from and met survivors from Kfar Aza and evacuees from Kiryat Shemona, and young soldiers in an artillery outpost.   

By the end of the first morning of the mission my brain was full. By evening, it was bursting. By the end of the third day, I was mentally, physically and emotionally spent. I decided to play a game in my head and began alphabetizing my emotions. I didn’t get past A; it was enough.  Agita, agony, anger, angst, anguish, animus, annoyance, apprehension, anxiety. I think mine was the same list for all of us. And everyone we heard from echoed similar sentiments pertaining to October 7, the current situation in Israel, and its aftermath.  

The unity of opinions of our presenters and those with whom we spoke was in sharp contrast to the deep divisiveness here over the past year. With respect to October 7, there was no equivocation of opinion that the government, and military and intelligence forces failed the country and its people. That the residents of the kibbutzim, moshavim, and cities in the Gaza envelope feel they were abandoned. That their trust, and that of most everyone here, in Israel’s political and military leadership is broken. That the whole country is grieving the death of concepts and beliefs. That Gaza is Hamas. That Israel must destroy Hamas and wipe it from Gaza. That the army must be allowed to finish the job.  

What happens the day after the war ends, and what happens the day after that, and into the future is yet unclear. There is so much uncertainty. We can kill terrorists but how do we kill an ideology? What will Gaza look like after Israel completes its military operations? Who will be in charge? What will the border communities be like? How many residents of the border communities both in the south and the north will even return? Who can be trusted to give the assurances needed to go back? Is what has been destroyed in Israel gone forever? What about the north? When will that start?  

The most profound experience of the mission for me was our visit to Kfar Aza. Most of us have seen the still pictures and videos in broadcast news coverage. We have read and heard stories from the survivors. But nothing quite prepares one for wading in person through the aftermath of a pogrom. Even six weeks after the scene has been somewhat sanitized and is now absent the most gruesome signs of human carnage. There is a randomness to the destruction. Homes that show clearly evidence of assaults from RPGs, automatic weapons and incendiary devices sit next to homes that are completely untouched, with laundry neatly hanging outside on drying racks, waiting for their owners to gather them up and put them away.  

One of the soldiers who accompanied us on our visit was Adin Mauer, a Canadian-Israeli computer engineering student in his fourth year at UBC. Adin co-chair’s JFGV’s Axis network for Jewish adults in their 20s and 30s. A former infantry officer, platoon commander, and operations officer for five years, Adin is one of 30 reservists from Metro Vancouver who returned to Israel beginning October 8, to take up their previous or new duties with the IDF.  

With 40+ people in our group, it is a bit challenging for me to hear the speaker addressing us. I ask Adin (who I know from Vancouver) if he would be okay to take me on my own “private” tour the kibbutz. He is. I grab Metyal Novidomsky, the Director, CTC/ Etzba Hagalil P2G and we go together with Adin to the kfar noar section of the kibbutz, an area for young couples and families. (Later, I will convince Ezra to come with me, under Adin’s watchful escort, to the edge of the kibbutz property to show him what I saw earlier. The broken entry gate from the kibbutz fields where the terrorists entered, and the view of the border wall 2KM from there, and Gaza less than 2KM farther.) 

As we approach kfar noar, we notice a strong smell all around us of something burnt. Adin tells us the smell is better now than it was several weeks earlier, when he came for the first time to help clean up. Now it is just the smell of what were never animate objects. There are household and personal belongings everywhere. A shoe. Playing cards. A sofa. A washing machine. The little neighbourhood looks like a junkyard. As we pass the rows of housing units, Adin points out a depression of exposed soil in the lawn in the middle area between the residences. He asks me what I think it is from. It is too shallow for a missile, I say. I have no clue. Adin explains that a victim was murdered in that spot, and when the body was removed the blood-soaked earth beneath it was also collected for burial.  

We proceed further and enter some of the hollow husks of little residences once lovely and full of life now empty with nothing but the residue of death and destruction. Charred walls, melted bathroom fixtures, smoky residue, and walls and doors riddled with bullet holes. The homes that were not burned are strewn inside with debris. Personal belongings thrown willy-nilly first by terrorists and then tossed aside by ZAKA as they searched for bodies.  

I enter one of the apartments with Adin, who shows me pictures of what it looked like several weeks ago. The safe room window with a bullet hole through the glass hangs open the same way. The books and the unopened package of crackers on a small shelf in the living area are there. The mess under the slatted bed frame has not changed. Only the floors and walls are different. They are no longer drenched in red. Adin pauses in the bedroom to note an ID card on a small table. It was not there the last time he was in the house. It indicates the resident, Netta Epstein, was certified as a junior open water scuba diver. Adin looks up his name in the database of victims to confirm what he knows of him. Terrorists attacked this home that Netta, 22, shared with his partner, Iran. He died saving her life by throwing himself on the grenade lobbed into the room.  

As I exit the unit I am struck by a new wave of conflicting emotions. I feel as though I am violating the sanctity of this place of death by being here, entering the homes of the murdered and walking in their place of death. But I have been exhorted by everyone we meet to bear witness. I believe these victims call out to me, too. I have to touch the walls inside the homes of the massacred and wade through the remnants of their lives. I have been charged with the responsibility of being their story keepers. It dawns on me that the very expression of “bearing witness” suggests the carrying of a load. I must bear the weight of these horrors and these experiences so I can bring them to others. To bring them to you.  

The visit to Kfar Aza is soul-crushing. But it is followed by a stop at a roadside food stop for soldiers. The contrast is sharp. The place is buzzing with military personnel and filled with life. There is resilience and confidence here. It lifts me. Our next stop, at an artillery outpost, lifts me further. The men and women in uniform have buoyed me. Each of them is bearing the weight of the country and our collective Jewish future. The least I can do is carry the weight of bearing witness. When they put down their load, I will put down mine.