Many things have been said about many people from Nir Oz, especially the eight months that have passed, but "cleared for publication" – the confirmation of the killed – are always the final words. Another name under a photo from a screenshot from Facebook from some wedding or other a few years ago, in a terrifyingly long list of names and photos that scroll down our feeds every day of this war. There isn't even time, or emotional space, to process each person's story because tomorrow or maybe even this evening, another one will appear.
Every person in Israel knows or is connected to someone who was killed in war. Those of us with bad luck have lost two or three in this war alone.
My feed, however, is an infinite carpet of "cleared for publication," because I'm from Nir Oz. There isn't even space for one cat playing the piano, or a hipster with a beard building a toilet paper holder from reclaimed wood, just photos of dead people. Oh, sorry, some of them haven't been confirmed dead yet; they're still being held hostage, waiting their turn.
I'm not talking about friends of friends, or someone we know from the neighborhood, or took a course with once. In Nir Oz, we are so intimately connected that even though it sounds like a cliché, it's true. A group of people so interconnected that only the concept of "immediate family" can come close to describing our relationships. We shared a home, all our belongings, even our kids. All the little tricks of life we taught each other and learned from each other, and it turns out that we did a pretty good job because otherwise, I don't know how we would managed to hold up throughout this whole mess.
We haven't even started to think or deal with the trauma of the pogrom and massacre that happened in Nir Oz on Oct. 7, when we were conquered by the Freedom Army of the State of Hamas (they're not called that officially, but we've already lost this war and it's only a matter of time before it's official), because we are still dealing with so many other things: our friends who are hostages, our houses built with so much hard work over the course of decades that went up in flames, our lives that were taken away from us within seconds and that we won't be able to return to again, and the bloody "cleared for publication" that appears on the news every few days. This week we got 4 in one go.
Dolev Yehoud, but most of the time just Dudu
A particularly successful mixture of silliness and seriousness. A true friend, like, from the olden days, one of those who will jump at the chance to save you from any situation at any time and will make sure that you'll laugh while he's doing so. He was a few years younger than me, but together we wrestled with our fair share of screws under the combine harvester, we drank enough beers or two at the kibbutz bar, and we climbed over a fair few sand dunes over the course of many years. Our kids grew up together, the third and fourth generation of Nir Oz, at the same nursery and the same school that shaped us. It looked like they were a recipe for exactly the same cheekiness that only those who grew up in Nir Oz could create, and of course, it's always the dad's fault.
Amiram Cooper, but mostly just Cooper
Farmer and poet with a firm hand, strong opinions, and a sensitive heart. He retired back when the tractors were still red and not green, but every day in the cafeteria, he would approach me with a self-importance that only someone who came to the desert and swung a hoe in the face of the wilderness can have and asked me how the crops were this season and what the market was like at the moment. "Lower than average, but we haven't watered the last drop yet," I would answer and carry on walking to the soda fountain, with the self-importance that only someone who was given the keys to a farming empire built by these veterans can have.
Yoram Metzger, but mostly just Metzger
I called him boss for the past 20 years because of that one time I worked with him in the economics department. A man with a good heart and a large smile, who, whenever I messed around at work, would get angry with me via an Arabic proverb (it was always about a donkey, and I don't know if I was the donkey or if I rode the donkey, or maybe I was feeding it? I don't remember). To this day, every time I see his picture, I smell amba, because, truly, there was no amba better than the one that Metzger made for the cafeteria. Just the right amount of spicy, not too salty, and peppered with nuggets of wisdom and proverbs in Arabic.
Chaim Peri, but mostly just Chaim'keh
A whole world in one man. An artist of all kinds, too many to list, and the last bastion of stability and sanity in the madhouse. Much of what I know about cinema and art I learned from Chaim and a few tips about soldering. He was also a teacher when I was a kid, but I didn't turn up to classes, no matter what they were, so everything I learned I learned over morning coffees at the garage. Between conversations about some artwork by some guy with a Polish name, I also learned a thing or two about war and peace, about occupied and occupier, and about believing in the good of mankind. Sometimes I would sit and show him my photos, "that one's very beautiful, aesthetic and colorful" he would say, "but get back to me when you know what it is that you're even trying to say". I'm still searching.
These are just four people out of dozens from Nir Oz that are gone. There were so many others, but I won't write about them now; they've already disappeared from from our feeds. At some point, when it's all over I will grieve them to the depth they deserve. In the meantime, there is no time, there are still people held hostage, waiting for their headlines, and this whole thing is happening live. Some of them are twice my age, some of them half, but we all shared the kibbutz and family. It's crazy and mind-blowing to see them languishing in captivity while we are talking because everyone knows we could have done things differently and saved them. These four, in addition to so many fallen soldiers, hostages, and survivors, have been waiting since 6:30 a.m. on that Saturday for someone to come and help them. For someone to come and save them. At first, we were sure that within eight minutes, the army would arrive and it would be over; after eight hours, it started to feel weird that no one was coming, and after eight days still nothing. Eight weeks later, we started to understand what was going on, and eight months later, we know it's simply been malicious sabotage, neglect, and lawlessness this whole time. Lots of big words, but imagine that you really need – and are begging for – help, about to die, and no one is listening. Maybe even worse – they can hear you and are ignoring you, or you were "just forgotten" (wait for the investigations about what happened in Nir Oz, it'll be interesting). This is the whole reason we shared our lives together at the Kibbutz – so that there will always be someone there when we call for help. And truly, they all came to help and are still helping us now, screaming their souls out in the middle of main roads and supporting families that have been broken to pieces, the fragments of what is left of the Kibbutz on which we grew up. I can always trust them. They know my full name, but they call me mostly just by my nickname.
