A deathly silence prevailed in Kibbutz Be'eri as I walked into the abandoned houses, trembling with fear of what awaited me. A refrigerator in the middle of the living room in a desperate attempt to prevent the entry of terrorists, overturned tables, and a safe room with a toilet paper roll and some children's games left inside. The floor was full of water, and I knew full well why. The rivers of blood had to be washed away with rivers of water.
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Outside the house, a film crew tried to convince a dog to come to them, but it barked and barked and refused to come. Ilya, our southern correspondent, said that its owners had been looking for it for several days, but it refused to approach anyone and fled with its tail between its legs. Several paratrooper soldiers moved from house to house on the kibbutz path, making sure no other terrorist had sneaked in. The smell of death mixed with the smell of smoke from the burnt houses filled the air. This is a destroyed kibbutz.
Video: Hamas terrorists entering Be'eri / Credit: Security cameras
A few hours earlier I had arrived at the national bomb disposal lab. Anti-aircraft missiles, anti-tank charges stuck to the vehicles of the victims in the Re'im massacre and incendiary charges like those thrown into innocent homes in Israeli kibbutzim were presented to us.
The terrorists' plan was to carry out a much larger massacre. "I'm going to Be'eri, want to come?" asked Shmuel, our photographer, and I immediately agreed without hesitation. We had to look at the horrors with our own eyes in order to defeat the enemy, the murderous Hamas.
Two hours later I found myself at the entrance to Kibbutz Be'eri, where at least 118 Israelis were murdered, and many others kidnapped. But although I thought I was prepared for the difficult sights, for the destruction and the view of houses where Jews were burned alive and their ashes rose to the heavens, the sights were unbearable.
Tears mingled with sweat on my face at the sight of burnt, destroyed bicycles, just like my son has. "Welcome home mom and dad," was written on one of the doors and I couldn't help but wonder if mom and dad were still there, if grandma or the child who wrote the sign were still alive?
I started my journey in the cursed dining hall where terrorists barricaded themselves with hostages. "In honor of Be'eri's founders who built a homeland, established a kibbutz and fought for the establishment of the state," was written on the wall of the building, next to a bullet-riddled window.
The air conditioner was still on inside the building, the Sukkot decorations still hung on the walls, the sukkah built outside the dining hall still stood, but the palm branches had withered, dried up and fallen, embarrassed by the blood spilled in the kibbutz.
Inside the dining hall, pictures of children and toddlers were placed on the walls. "Childhood in Be'eri" was written on a colorful string of flags. The facilities set up for the children in the hallway were left orphaned. Will children return to Be'eri?
Outside the dining hall I find a completely destroyed building. I don't know if there were people in it, but it is complete devastation. I walk carefully so as not to stumble upon a grenade left behind by a terrorist, and go down to a large lawn at the end of which is a stage, where community ceremonies and shows were held, I would imagine. In the middle of the lawn is a huge crater caused by a mortar bomb or rocket and next to it a white package labeled "white sheets for corpses". At the top of a tall pole an Israeli flag flutters vigorously, indicating that the victory of Israel will not lie. Next to it is a small old building with red tiles and a brown door. "The armory, in memory of the fallen."
I turn right and find myself next to a house. Four pairs of bicycles, a father, mother and two children lived here, I imagine, a step and a half forward, past the bushes, reveals a completely burnt down house. Blood and fire and columns of smoke in the heart of the green kibbutz. The house is completely shattered. Tiles, ashes and dust mixed together. What was once a home is now a disaster zone. The family, if by some miracle they survived the massacre, will not return to there home that was once surrounded by green pots and is now blacker than black.
A kindergarten compound is nearby. Old-fashioned carts are lined up, waiting for children some of whom are no longer with us. Toys and games lie in heaps in the blooming yard. "Note: Little Lotem is allergic to milk and soy products," is written on the entrance door. Next to the safe room, on an inside window sill, sits a cute white stuffed rabbit. Which of the children will it never get to meet.
Until a week and a half ago, the houses that stand before me were happy, joyful homes. Parents and children, young and old lived in them. Now the doors are wide open, and reporters rudely intrude inside to bring the story of the shocking massacre to the world's attention.
The Huberman family's door on the second floor of an apartment building. The refrigerator with the children's pictures is aggressively pushed against the door, and it is as clear as the sun why it served on that black Shabbat. On the floor is a toy truck and the book Hanan the Gardener, exactly like the one in my house and whose words I know by heart due to my identical name. Oh Hanan the gardener, the gardener Hanan, look what happened to the seeds you sowed in the garden.
Ruined houses peer at me from all sides. In one, bicycles that once belonged to a happy girl and are now a memorial to the burning hatred of monsters. In another, a stroller that served an elderly person, who was and is no more. A female soldier passes by me with a helmet on her head. Her mouth trembles, her eyes tearful at the sight of the horrors.
I enter more and more houses, absorbing the happy childhoods, the experiences of families torn apart, trampled and slaughtered. On one of the refrigerators is a list of plans for Sukkot. Bowling, baking, hiking and finally - escape room. And the heart trembles, did you manage to escape from the cursed terrorists?
One house looks as if the terrorists failed to touch it. Clean and tidy amid the chaos. But outside, the massacre again slaps aggressively. terrorist vests with Arabic writing thrown on the sidewalk. Next to them a jeep full of the bullet holes. The house opposite it plastered and completely destroyed. Here was the kitchen and there the table with food left on it. On the way to the safe room I step on debris and fear a charge or grenade left behind, so I retreat back. People were murdered here. Their bodies were removed from the rubble of what was once their home, their fortress. But the smell remains. The smell is terrible, the smell of death.
Outside one of the buildings sit several fighters from Battalion 890 of the paratroopers. They were rushed to the scene amid the chaos and participated in killing the terrorists. Now they guard the deserted kibbutz. The soldiers reside only in homes where their fellow Jews were not murdered. In one of the houses, on the refrigerator, are two letters. The first, from the fighters of Company A, Battalion 202 Paratroopers: "We apologize for having to use your home. We tried as much as possible to keep it clean and tidy. Thank you very much for the hospitality."
The second letter is from a girl to her mother: "To mom: I thought it would be really nice if you came home, so I made you a little surprise. I put the dishes away and turned on the dishwasher so when you get home you just have to take out the dishes instead of washing them by hand. Love, Shai." And the word dishes is misspelled, the sweet girl innocently wrote the word death. The word screams at me because who knows where Shai is, who knows where her friends and neighbors are.
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The horrors outside the buildings are almost random. Cars smashed to smithereens by Hamas anti-tank missiles, a swing that brought serenity and now became an awful iron skeleton. Outside the dental clinic are rifles, magazines, grenades and a launcher belonging to the wretched terrorists. The stench is appalling, and Ilya says the situation is still good compared to a few days ago. The windows are shattered, the walls collapsed. On the road lies a motorcycle of one of the murderers and next to it an Israeli car riddled with bullets. Inside is a multi-line bus pass and a can of Coke. Who knows which hero arrived to save the kibbutz and got shot.
On the lawn are more terrorists' vests, soaked in their blood after being shot by IDF soldiers. Tools, wire cutters and more magazines. The battle took place right outside the kindergarten. A sign saying "Welcome to our sukkah" and next to it a blood-soaked vest.
4:30 PM. Time to leave, although we feel we have barely scratched the surface of the disaster that took place on this land, our land. On the way out we meet reservists. Josh, Father of two from Tel Aviv, talks to us briefly, pointing to a menacing-looking commando knife tucked into his vest. "We're going to take them apart," he says. "See you in Gaza
