In a small village on Luzon Island in the Philippines, where the ancient Aeta tribe sustains itself through agriculture, 20 Israeli bereaved mothers arrive after a challenging off-road journey crossing rivers, rocks, and steep ascents.

As the meeting with the warm-hearted tribespeople concludes, Adva, mother of Staff Sergeant Noam Abramovich who was murdered at Nahal Oz outpost on October 7, takes the wheel of the jeep and begins the steep descent back.

Suddenly she brakes and asks Tom Rosenthal, mother of Sergeant Afik Rosenthal, sitting in the back seat, to replace her because the slope seems threatening. Adva exits the jeep, and I follow to photograph the tropical landscape. She's forgotten to put the jeep in park, and it begins rapidly rolling downhill with Frida, Tom, and Tali inside – all women who lost their children during that Black October.

Sharp screams from Adva and Tom pierce the surrounding silence. In a split second, I must decide – photograph the incident or run after the rolling vehicle to try to stop it. I choose to abandon my camera and rush toward the driver's seat, but Frida beats me to it. She extends her long leg and presses the brake pedal. The jeep stops at the fence, a split second before it would have flipped over. The team extracts it without damage, and now Tom sits behind the wheel.

"Adva, we've discovered you're afraid of dying," Tom says. Adva replies: "I'm afraid of pain. Be precise." Tom: "I screamed my soul out. I don't want to die." Frida laughs: "Just when I chose life."

When did you choose life? I interject in the conversation. Frida: "I haven't chosen yet. I'm surviving day by day. For now." Tom: "At first, I couldn't even cry. But at Afik's funeral, I wore white. It was an act of defiance. I won't be in black. During shiva, a friend gave me the phone number of Shira Yavetz, mother of Yiftah Yavetz, who was killed. Afik died while treating wounded Yiftah. I called and asked her, 'Do you want to choose life with me?' and Shira answered, 'Yes, yes, yes' and asked that we video call. Since then, we've been choosing life. A good life."

Adva: "In my previous life, I told myself I could handle anything except the death of a child, which is why I don't give importance to things like a potential jeep rollover. Nothing happened, we continue."

"Accelerate on the uphill. Gas, gas," comes the instruction from guide Noya over the radio on how to cross the river. The jeep sputters but finally reaches the opposite bank, and they continue their conversation.

Adva: "My Noam wrote: 'A person is responsible for finding meaning in their life.' This has become our mission. Our role as parents is to ensure what happened is never forgotten. When reading about the Yom Kippur War, we understand it was the bereaved parents who led social change."

Frida: "We must not forget what was before October 7. If we don't do something for unity among our people, it's as if my child died for nothing. Even if he saved an entire kibbutz, there will be another October 7."

Why did I say "yes"?

Since October 7, I haven't left Israel's borders. I don't judge those who travel, but personally, I couldn't enjoy the wonders of Paris while hostages remain shackled in tunnels without seeing daylight. I couldn't dream of the Northern Lights while our soldiers risk their lives on all fronts.

That's why I surprised myself when I said "yes" to Yifat Yeger, a psychotherapist specializing in trauma and resilience, who called to ask if I'd be willing to photograph the world's first off-road journey of bereaved mothers heading to the Philippines. There are moments when my mouth works much faster than my brain. I agreed to the proposal long before considering what I would need to face. Because it's not just about positioning my GoPro in front of a shark's mouth, or how to photograph four women in a sputtering jeep.

I thought that by listening to and documenting these mothers and their stories about daughters and sons who won't return, I wouldn't really be enjoying myself "fully." I hadn't considered what it would mean to listen to 20 mothers who experienced the worst possible tragedy. Some haven't slept for a year and five months. Others haven't returned to work. All have a deep hole in their hearts.

Twenty mothers whose fates were intertwined on October 7 embarked on this journey. Among them were mothers of female lookouts who were in the command center on the morning of the attack and were the first to identify, report, and direct forces: Sharon Eshel, mother of Corporal Roni Eshel; Tzameret Haim Pour, mother of Sergeant Shirel Haim Pour; Gili Leibushor, mother of Corporal Yael Leibushor; Tiki Barzilay, mother of Corporal Osher Simcha Barzilay; and Anat Glass, mother of Sergeant Yam Glass, who commanded the lookout team.

Joining them were mothers of lookouts who were trapped in a concrete shelter that failed to protect them: Sigal Price, mother of Sergeant Noa Price; Sari Ashram, mother of Corporal Shay Ashram; Ilanit Cohen, mother of Private Hadar Miriam Cohen; Adva Abramovich, mother of Private Noam Abramovich; Keren Amar, mother of Private Shirat Yam Amar; Ilana Nissani, mother of Sergeant Shahaf Nissani; and Adi Marciano, mother of Private Noa Marciano, who was kidnapped wounded from the shelter and murdered in captivity by Hamas. They were joined by Sharon Nimri, mother of Captain Eden Nimri, team commander in the "Sky Rider" unit, which was armed and fought fiercely against terrorists outside the shelter.

Mothers of seven fallen IDF soldiers also participated: Tom Rosenthal, mother of Sergeant Afik Rosenthal, and Shira Yavetz, mother of Captain Yiftah Yavetz; Shalhevet Harush, mother of Sergeant Ido Harush; Adi Golan, mother of Sergeant Yoni Golan; Frida Marciano, mother of Sergeant Itai Eliyahu Marciano; Tali Mishaelof, mother of Sergeant Gal Mishaelof; and Ilit Ben Nun, mother of Captain Shlomo Ben Nun.

Twenty mothers. Twenty stories of entire worlds cut short. Longing and indescribable pain against the backdrop of tropical landscapes and physical and emotional challenges.

Yifat Yeger explains the rationale behind the journey: "One thing that characterizes traumatic experiences is that they sever life. We're going on a long, continuous journey where everyone who joins will face challenges. My expertise is in journeys that involve emotional and mental processes. This isn't a retreat or a weekend in London. It's a long journey. Something happens every day."

Adva: "The word 'journey' contains 'go' [in Hebrew]. I know this from my previous life. I know journeys create movement in the soul, and I came to try. First, to distance myself from Israel to get closer to myself and try to create some movement in my soul that might help me say to myself, 'Well, so much has been ruined, so let's make one small decision and try to take it somewhere positive.' That's my hope from this journey."

The "interconnected parents" law

I'm surprised to discover that Ben Gurion Airport hasn't changed. It's even bustling with life in a somewhat disturbing way. The journey team includes Liat Lehavi, representing the foundation and donors; Liat Sade-Sternberg, CEO of the foundation; Noya Sagiv, literature doctoral student and guide; Dina Promovitz, social companion; Dr. Drorit Attias, journey physician; and Liora Haninovitz, logistics manager. The women are already at Gate 32, our meeting point, handling final arrangements.

It all began when Adi Marciano and Sharon Eshel sat on a bench waiting for their daughters, sisters of Roni and Noa, who were being interviewed for a bereaved siblings delegation. "Then they thought, 'Wait, what about the mothers?'" recalls Gili Leibushor, one of the journey's initiators. "They called me from the bench and said, 'We need a challenging off-road journey for mothers.'"

Sharon, Adi, and Gili, like the other parents of the lookouts, met on October 7 during those difficult hours when they gathered every bit of information about their daughters' fate. They became a community that initiates memorial activities, promotes investigation committees and social changes. But above all, it's a community that supports its members. "It's the law of bereaved parents, like the law of communicating vessels, so it's the law of interconnected parents," Gili explains their strength.

"Sometimes someone is up and lifts those who are down, sometimes it's the opposite and it balances out. For me personally, these connections and this support are among the things that have helped me most in getting through this terrible year. It's easiest to be with women like me, bereaved mothers. One look, and everyone understands. One word, and no explanation is needed."

About a month after the phone call where the journey idea was raised, a walk was held in the Gaza border communities. Liat Lehavi, for whom Yael was a babysitter for her children, joined Gili on the walk.

Gili: "She asked me, 'What can I do to help you?' I told her, 'We want to go on a journey.' Liat replied, 'What do you want to happen on this journey?' I said, 'I want to laugh. I'm not laughing. Maybe there's a chance that in this place I'll laugh.'"

"I want to show my children that I've overcome, that I'm fighting for them. They're proud of me, of my battle," shares a mother from the delegation.

The mothers approached Journey4Hope, a foundation that supports the rehabilitation of victims of the Iron Swords War through resilience and leadership journeys. The journey itself was produced by Magma, a company specializing in organizing off-road expeditions.

The foundation was established by Sade-Sternberg, who explains: "In the army, I was a casualties officer. But what suited bereaved mothers I knew in the 1990s is not suitable for women in 2025." With the foundation's help, donors were found who understood that these mothers, who for almost a year and a half had only given of themselves to their families and communities, would receive the resilience they needed – and the date was set.

If I had submitted this story as a screenplay, it wouldn't have passed any review committee. The timing seems artificial. After months of planning, 20 bereaved mothers take off, 12 of them mothers of lookouts or operations sergeants who fell on October 7 in the command center and the shelter from which lookouts Karina Ariev, Naama Levy, Liri Albag, Daniella Gilboa, and Agam Berger were kidnapped. The day before the flight, four of the lookouts return to Israel, while Agam Berger would be released when they are in the midst of their journey.

For some participants, the decision to join was complex. Shira Yavetz shares: "I didn't go to support groups and didn't meet bereaved families, and I even said I hate being with bereaved mothers. Before Yiftah fell, I was both Yiftah's mother and a thousand other things. When they invited me to join, I got a bit anxious and worried they would bring me down."

Sigal Price was concerned about the physical difficulty: "I can't do such journeys, but they (Sharon Eshel and Gili Leibushor) told me 'we'll be with you,' and they didn't give up." Tiki Barzilay also hesitated, but when Tzameret Haim Pour called and said she needed her by her side, she didn't hesitate: "I told her, 'For you, I'll do it.'"

Communication

Only about ten percent of the thousands of Philippine islands are inhabited. Most residents live on Luzon Island, where our journey begins. Traveling in a convoy of jeeps requires using radios to overcome road obstacles and report problems. Among themselves, they don't need devices to identify an issue. During the instruction on the radios, a seemingly simple technical action, Gili notices that Sharon Eshel, standing next to Sigal, is shedding a tear, and quickly approaches to embrace her.

On the morning of October 7, Corporals Yael and Roni were the first to report Hamas's attack. From the recordings the IDF provided to the families, one can clearly hear the two reporting from the first minute until contact was lost.

At 6:29 AM, Yael reported: "I see four people descending toward the fence, confirm receipt!" and Roni simultaneously: "Diego stations receive, four people running toward the fence, confirm receipt." For 25 minutes, they report on fence events moment by moment, until Yael says with sober understanding, "They're inside the outpost." Afterward, the terrorists disabled the systems.

Gili approaches Liat Sadeh, explaining that the radio devices are a difficult trigger for them.

"We didn't come to enjoy"

From the jeep window, an urban landscape is visible. Narrow alleys, sparse grocery stores, banana stalls, barefoot children running from place to place. "It reminds me of Gaza. A third-world country. Look at their houses, how they hang their laundry," says Adi Marciano to her jeep companions Sharon Nimri, Ilanit, and Anat.

They wave to the barefoot children. Adi: "Did Hadar tell you about the dogs in Nahal Oz?"

Ilanit: "Hadar used to feed them."

Adi: "Noa loved animals very much. One of the first pictures she sent me from the outpost was of dogs. They were instructed by their commanders not to touch them for fear of diseases, so they would feed them."

Ilanit: "The female dogs would escape from Gaza and come to give birth under the containers. Hadar wanted to adopt a puppy."

Adi: "They even cared for Gaza's dogs."

"It's only hard for me because Noa was kidnapped and we could have gotten her back," says Adi Marciano.

The jeep convoy leaves the urban area and heads onto a dirt road. The vegetation is sparse, reminiscent of reeds. Thin cows stand by the roadside. The jeeps race across flowing water, splashing everywhere. Through the window, women can be seen using every water source, large or small, for laundry – beating colorful clothes and drying them on rocks.

If I thought it would be difficult to talk with them about the disaster and their children, from the first moment of the journey I realized I was wrong. They describe every moment of that Saturday. Who wrote which message and to whom. Who stood where in the shelter. They compare information. I'm part of one long conversation that began upon boarding the plane, continued through meals, plays in the jeep, and seems now that it will never end.

We arrive at a hot spring, and they put on swimsuits and immerse themselves, enjoying this beautiful natural resource. And the stories? They continue even in the water. Leaving the water, Shira and Ilana spontaneously dance with local children, joined by Tom, Ilanit, Shalhevet, and team members.

Gili winks at them: "We didn't come to enjoy." Shira responds with a smile: "Today we pretended it's October 6."

Signs

Ilana, Sari, Tiki, and Tzameret share a jeep with guide Noya. "Release for drive," Noya explains to Ilana about the jeep before they set out for a long drive to the Pacific Ocean. Ilana has never driven outside of Ashkelon. "They won't believe me at home," she says.

Three weeks after October 7, when casualty officers knocked on Tiki's door, it wasn't the first time for her. Her brother was killed in the army in a car accident and her eldest daughter was critically injured in a hit-and-run. After her brother's death, her parents died young. She chooses to fight the desire to fall apart. In the jeep, she's responsible for maintaining good spirits and puts "Even Better" on the playlist. They sing and clap. Tzameret's smile suddenly changes to a grimace of crying, seemingly without reason.

Sari turns to Tzameret: "You, with God's help, will have a good day. We're with you all the way."

Tzameret hasn't slept since October 7. Even her cocktail of pills no longer affects her. "Someone is with me here, like a madman not knowing where to go, when I felt alone you threw me a sign," Tiki sings with singer Benaia Barabi. "I want you to photograph this," requests Ilana, pointing to the black speaker device that has writing on it that looks like the word "Shahaf" in Hebrew. "I asked Shahaf for a sign that she's with me, and then I got into the jeep and saw this. She told me, 'I'm here with you on this trip.'"

Tiki takes out a sticker with Osher's picture that says "always smiling" and attaches it to the car's air freshener shaped like a smiling face. "See, Osher is with us here too. Telling me, 'Be happy. Smile. Enjoy.' Tzameret was very sad this morning at the hotel, and suddenly white butterflies appeared and surrounded us. I told her, 'Here's Shirel, she wants you to enjoy a little. Tzameret, smile.'"

"Look, look, there's Shahaf in the sky," Ilana draws our attention. "Signs are when you find something that's not in its natural place. There's no sea here. Seagulls don't fly here. That's Shahaf."

We stop for lunch at a lake formed after the eruption of Mount Pinatubo in 1991. The serene, pastoral view doesn't reveal the drama that unfolded here years ago.

Ilana gets out of the jeep: "I'm not letting anyone else drive. I'm enjoying this, I'm enjoying this."

While Liora prepares food for them, Noya plays guitar. The short break extends because one of the vehicles is malfunctioning and they're waiting for it to be repaired. At the lakeside, Adva cries. "At this hour I used to text with Noam every day." I'm armed with a camera. To be precise, with three cameras that distance me from committing a transgression, which means tears that might blur the focus. I continue photographing. Adva: "I haven't slept for four nights. With everyone's stories and photos of all the children, it's like I've gone back to October 7 with intense pain in my heart. I hoped nature would work its magic on me, and it's not happening. But the moment I started understanding things about myself, I'm already glad I came."

I can no longer hold back my tears. It trickles down, and the camera's focus becomes blurred. I turn off the camera and embrace her.

Why are you glad you came?

"Suddenly I've developed the desire – or understanding – that I need to start rebuilding, that I have no choice. The question is whether I can create meaning in my life. I'm living on autopilot and making a tremendous effort for my children." Adva left her job as VP of human resources and established the "In Noam's Way" foundation, which promotes educational programs encouraging young people to integrate into public service.

When the jeep malfunction is fixed, we continue to the ocean. I return to Adva, Frida, Tom, and Tali's jeep. Back in Israel, a wave of hostage releases begins, including lookout Agam. Tali checks the emergency app, sees Gadi Moses being released and gets emotional. "I'm shocked, he looks good, Keith will look like that too." Keith Siegel is a mental health representative, and Tali is his manager. "I don't think he knows about Gal. He always said Gal, the soldier, was protecting him."

Frida also opens a news app and reports: "Three will arrive from one place, and Agam from another." The silence that falls in the jeep is pierced by Gili's report on the radio: "All Magma stations receive, this is the mothers of the lookouts. Agam Berger, on her feet, is in the hands of the Red Cross, all the girls are coming home. Confirm receipt."

Gili has overcome the trigger of the radio devices, but the great challenge now lies before all of them. The jeep creaks, and Tali bites her lips, "She looks good, how wonderful," and adds: "If only for us. I wish Gal was wounded and I could move to live next to his bed in Soroka Hospital." Joy mixes with pain. She cries. "It's hard for me with this finality that some will return and some won't."

Tom: "I'm happy for their happiness, but it hurts." Adva: "For a year I've been saying I wish Noam was kidnapped." Tom: "I don't know what the result of that would be." Adva: "She's returned to her mother's arms." Tom: "As I knew him, Afik would have shot himself in the head if he were kidnapped."

An unplanned stop in the middle of the Santo Tomas riverbed because the malfunctioning jeep has broken down again. Keren cries and Dina, the social companion, hugs her – her daughter and Agam were best friends. The released crying is contagious. Everyone hugs and tears up.

Ilana: "The last photo Shahaf sent was from Karina's phone in the shelter, a picture of the two of them that said 'Living.' I'm waiting to return to Israel and meet her; she can tell me exactly what happened in those final minutes."

Adi Marciano tears up: "It's only hard for me because Noa was kidnapped and we could have received her like they returned. It didn't happen for us. It's a feeling of missed opportunity, disappointment, anger, sadness. It's difficult for me to accept that she's not coming home."

As with many unexplained things on this journey, suddenly a double rainbow appears in the sky. Adi marvels. "For me, a rainbow is a greeting from our daughters," her voice chokes, "and that they're happy Agam has gone home and they're also sending us a hug."

An hour later, right at sunset, they finally reach the Pacific Ocean and allow themselves to unwind. Dina plays ABBA's "Dancing Queen" on the amplifier, and through their tears, they begin to dance.

Adi Marciano shouts to the sea: "Noa, mom is making a scene!" And Sharon Eshel reinforces her: "Roni, mom is embarrassing herself!" Adi screams: "Noa, I love you," and adds: "That's it, I've released it."

Symbol of massacre

When the malfunctioning jeep is replaced with a white Toyota pickup – a symbol of the massacre – they note it and move on. Tiki wants Tzameret to drive too, and brings her a pillow from the hotel room to improve her seating. It works. Tzameret drives.

Lighting Shabbat candles in a forest clearing on Friday evening challenges them anew. The relationship with God has become complicated to nearly impossible. Tzameret: "I cook, but there's no Kiddush, no holidays. Nothing."

Ilana: "I'm grateful to Sapir, my eldest, who in the first week asked, 'Mom, what shall we cook for Shabbat?' I told her, 'Keep it simple.' She told me, 'If you keep it simple, all of life will be simple.' She lifted me up."

Tzameret: "The disaster happened when my husband went to synagogue on Simchat Torah. On the holiest day. When he goes now, I ask him, 'What are you going to thank Him for – taking my daughter?'"

Sari: "If God had been there, He would have moved the gun."

Insights

In a canoe paddled by two locals on the way to Pagsanjan Falls, Ilana shares with Adva: "I've been married for 45 years; we're among those who sleep spooning every night. Great love. Since the disaster, he's absorbed me and absorbed, but it's cost him too much. This week I spoke openly with the team about feelings and relationships. Suddenly I realized I've ruined so much, and I'm afraid it will fall apart. Yesterday I spoke with him before Shabbat and promised that when I return, I'll make a switch – I'll fix things."

The river rushes between two mountains full of green tropical vegetation. In small canyons, the boatmen push the canoe with bare feet and paddle against the current.

Ilana remembers: "Shahaf wrote to me in her final moments: 'Stay a united family, continue and travel.' Only during this journey did I understand what she meant – that she was giving me permission to move forward, and I'll make efforts for her, despite all the difficulty."

After about an hour of sailing, they join the other mothers on a wooden raft that sails into the rushing waterfalls, emerging enthusiastic and full of adrenaline. Shira calls to Liat Sade-Sternberg: "I'll raise millions for you, so every bereaved mother can experience this."

In the evening, they arrive at the ambassador's residence, Ilan Plus, indulge in Israeli delicacies prepared by his wife, discover that the Filipinos saved Jews during World War II and supported the establishment of Israel, and leave pictures of their children on the dresser as a memento.

The professional team members, who volunteered for the journey, meet in the evening to process the passing day and fine-tune the next day. Yifat tells them: "Action leads the soul. Everything I believe and know about therapy and trauma is coming true before our eyes. I don't remember when I laughed so much, and on the other hand, my soul burns every day."

Hills train

A smiling local guide welcomes them upon landing on Bohol Island and teaches them a Filipino word, "mabuhay," which means "live well – live simply." Sounds simple. They climb a steep staircase on one of the 1,300 Chocolate Hills, a rare natural phenomenon of hills with identical shape and color, to reach a 360-degree viewpoint. At the top, Tiki feels close to Osher and begins to cry. An American tourist notices Gili photographing Sigal with her daughter's flag. "What does the sign say?" he asks, and Gili explains: "She lost her daughter."

"Did her daughter fall down?" His gaze wanders in horror to the slope and checks the stability of the rusty fence. Tzameret shows him a sticker of Shirel and explains what happened to her daughter, to Sigal's daughter, and to the children of the other mothers.

The tourist's expression changes. "My name is Jeff, I'm an American citizen from Utah, and what they did in October is terrible. Try to destroy Hamas," he recounts all the nuances of the war knowledgeably while being photographed with Shirel's flag.

The day's finale is a festive meal on a tourist raft. Good food, dancing, and again – great crying. A Filipino waiter runs to bring Tzameret tissues to wipe away tears. "What was I thinking?" she sobs in Liat Sade-Sternberg's arms, "that I could be away from home for two weeks?"

The next day, she's the first to jump in for a dive with sharks and sea turtles. She laughs at the sailors who took her to the open sea and wear masks covering their faces, like the terrorists, for protection from the sun. Ilanit is afraid to jump into the water – "I've had trouble with lack of control since October 7" – but Sharon Nimri, who jumped first, patiently helps her.

Sharon Eshel raises her head from the water with a snorkel in excitement: "I haven't gone into the sea for years out of fear of sharks. This is amazing. Now we need to see dolphins."

End

Twelve days of journey. Flights. Waiting. Challenges. They all have stickers, flags, and necklaces of the fallen children with which they take photos everywhere. They've tattooed mementos of their children on their bodies and feel they're doing their post-army trip. Crying. Laughter. Conversations about all of them. The stories want to continue being told. Yes, also conversations about politics. And the Hope Forum. And an investigation committee. And whether you go to the cemetery or avoid it.

They discuss relationships. A debate about foundations wanting to do good, but sometimes their embrace feels like a bear hug. No, they don't want to have another child to replace the one who died. As Frida explains: "A child is not a spare part."

I thought I was going with 20 mothers, but in practice, they were accompanied by 20 girls and boys who encouraged them and sent them signs. Yes, and the dolphins surprised them too.

The journey affected all of them. Some decided to return to work, others changed jobs. Some decided to repair relationships with partners, others began lighting Shabbat candles or sent their children to meetings with bereaved siblings.

They know returning to Israel will be challenging, but they also know they can laugh again.

The post 20 bereaved mothers journey to Philippines to heal appeared first on www.israelhayom.com.

Every morning the roar of the artillery cannons echoes around the northern town of Ma'alot-Tarshiha. From time to time, it provides a somber reminder of the war that is being waged on a daily basis along Israel's northern border. A metal barrier partially blocks the entrance to the alleyway, hinting to those coming to comfort the mourners to park their car in another street and to approach the house on foot. The family is just getting up from the 'shiva' or week-long family mourning period.

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The photos of Sergeant First Class Urija Bayer are still pasted on the barrier. He was a combat soldier in the elite Maglan commando unit, who was severely wounded on December 14 during a battle in the southern Gaza Strip. He was only 20 years old when he died of his wounds. A handwritten sign is draped at the entrance to the street: "Beloved soldiers, we hope and pray for your safety." It is adorned with a red heart and Stars of David, and Israeli flags wave in the wind all down the street.

Tarabin, a representative of the Ministry of Defense's Department of Families and Commemoration, sits opposite Nelly and Gideon, Urija's parents. He explains their rights to the newly bereaved family. Leika, a black, trained dog, lies on a handwoven carpet, the work of Nelly. Yonah, a black and white kitten, which their eldest daughter, Rachel, brought this week, is playing with a ping-pong ball underneath the guests' legs. The lounge is brimming with wreaths, most of which are bright orange star flowers that match the orange curtains. Gideon, Urija's father, repeats the sentence that he has uttered to so many visitors coming to comfort the mourners during the seven-day 'shiva' mourning period. "God makes no mistakes, it's just that we don't always understand him." He asks the MOD representative if there are any expectations of them as bereaved parents on Memorial Day. The representative, Tarabin, a Druze, recounts that only in recent years have people in his own village begun to visit the grave of the fallen: "That depends on you."

The mother, Nelly, a delicate and pretty woman, says that she wants a simple grave. "Just like in the village where I grew up in Germany. With many beautiful flowers. It was so beautiful, that as kids we used to love to play there, in the cemetery." Gideon adds: "I prefer to wait as long as it takes so that the headstone will be of good quality, not something that will crumble and fall apart."

Nelly and Gideon consult with each other in German. This German Christian couple is receiving advice from a Druze IDF representative regarding the grave of their soldier son, a fighter in an elite IDF unit. Gideon speaks Hebrew without the hint of an accent and spiced with up-do-date slang. He came to Israel at the age of two with his parents, Yochanan and Kristal, who were sent here on behalf of the German-Christian organization "Tsedaka" (charity) in 1972.

The organization's objective was to establish a holiday village for Holocaust survivors in the Shavei Zion Moshav near the northern coastal resort of Nahariya. The group then went on to establish the Beit Eliezer senior living community in Ma'alot Tarshiha, where the extended family works as a team with Christian volunteers from Germany and provides high quality service for the Holocaust survivors. The alley is like a small kibbutz, where the family lives alongside the retirement home. The elderly residents, the Holocaust survivors, pay according to their financial ability. The family members receive a small budget for their work, like all the volunteers. The activity is funded by the organization back in Germany.

"The fly with a broken leg"

Three and a half years ago, following the onset of the Covid-19 pandemic, I interviewed the family. Then, they protected the Holocaust survivors from the pandemic and locked themselves in the old age facility together with them. I now return to them after they have just lost their most precious treasure. Urija, the fourth of their five children, was killed in the war in Gaza. Throughout the interview, Nelly and Gideon lean on each other, and from time to time they hug each other too. They draw comfort from each other, clinging to their family humor and shedding tears.

They love to live in modesty and far away from the spotlights but agreed to be interviewed as part of their overall calling. "Comfort, oh comfort My people, Says your God," the verse in the Book of Isaiah states, which underscores for them their fundamental mission of comforting the People of Israel, even at its most difficult times. They genuinely hope that this interview will grant even a little hope.

Urija was a mother's boy, Nelly tells and sends her husband to change into an orange shirt. "You should be handsome, just as I like you. Orange is my color. At our wedding too I had an orange bouquet of flowers. When Odelia and Rachel joined the IDF Palchatz unit (acronym for the Rescue & Safety Company; HTA), that was the color of their service beret. When I found his orange shirt, we laughed, and said that we too are Rescue & Safety."

Urija was quiet by nature, and they had to ensure that he got his fair share of the attention. A cute boy, who used to bring his mother yellow flowers, wood sorrel, and on the wedding anniversary of his older sister, Rachel, he presented her with a gigantic bouquet of the pretty yellow flowers.

"He had a delicate soul. About four months ago, I began to arrange a garden in the yard, and when he phoned me from the army he would ask how the garden was coming along. He promised, 'When I come home on leave from the army, I will help you.' He didn't manage to do so," Nelly says. She wears his dog tags over her flowery dress. "In kindergarten, he didn't speak for a whole year, just smiled and played. They wanted to send him to Haifa for a hearing test. I told them that he understands everything and that Gideon will carry out a hearing test at home."

"It was extremely simple," Gideon explains, "I would open a bar of chocolate, he would then hear the rustling of the paper and then immediately come to get a cube of chocolate," they laugh. Nelly continues: "They insisted on the hearing test. I said, 'Okay, we will do it for you,' but it was clear that everything was in order."

One day, the little Urija was sitting on the balcony and reading: "Mommy, mommy, I am helping a fly, its leg is broken." Nelly recalls how his father came to help out the fly. Just like his brothers and cousins, Urija grew up with the residents of the retirement home. He knew all of them, and they would eat all the meals together in the dining room. On Fridays, they would make kiddush together and sing songs in Hebrew.

One day, when he was helping his parents, Urija noticed a column of ants making its way up the path at the entrance to the retirement home. He insisted on helping the ants, "who were working extremely hard," as one small ant was carrying a heavy stick, and he just had to help it. When he grew up he loved being at home. "Just like Ya'akov who used to dwell in tents." He would go out with friends, but not with the same intensity as his brothers. He did not like reading and studying, but all the same, he managed to get through school with his charming smile. And all that time he dreamed about serving in the elite undercover Duvdevan counter-terrorist unit.

The residents too have lost a grandson

Nelly arrived at Beit Eliezer as a volunteer. "After only six months, I already knew that I would marry Gideon. I must have been full of belief that this was whom God had sent me," she says. When they married they did not initially decide to stay in Israel. Gideon explains that they wanted to be sure that they had arrived at the place where God had sent them. Eventually, they set up a home in Israel and spoke with their children in German until the age of kindergarten. Once they started kindergarten they began to learn Hebrew, but to this day, Nelly speaks German to them.

The older girls found it difficult to get used to speaking in two languages at first. It was much easier for the younger children as they learned from each other. "We didn't want Germany to be something strange for them. They used to fly to Germany for a visit once every two years, Urija too."

Q: The children never sought to go and live somewhere else?

Nelly: "From an early age, they knew that this is the place for us, as ordained by God, this was patently clear to them."

Gideon: "In our family, we speak freely about everything. You can ask all the questions and get the relevant answers. It was perfectly clear to them why we are here."

Why? What did you tell the kids?
Nelly: "We help the elderly. They lived and experienced this too."

Gideon remembers how Urija once arrived from elementary school after he had heard about the Holocaust, and he was extremely torn up about it. "I asked him: 'Tell me, do you want to meet Holocaust survivors?' He said 'yes'. I said to him: 'All our residents are Holocaust survivors.' He asked about this grandma and that grandpa, and then the penny dropped about the Holocaust. They were like a family to him."

Nelly: "During the shiva, two of the residents came to comfort us."

Gideon: "One of them had a birthday on the following day, and she said that she would not be able to celebrate or have people sing to her. The residents felt as though they too had lost a grandson."

"Before joining the army he went to a pre-army military academy. 'Hitzim' (arrows) is a pre-army military academy with a three-month course that belongs to the Messianic Jews in Israel, and there he really began to flourish," Gideon says. "Suddenly, he discovered that he is capable of doing something, and this led to the change."

Nelly: "He assumed responsibility and took on various functions."

Gideon: "He flourished. He received a summons for the gibbush (rigorous selection process for elite IDF units) for the paratroopers, he wanted Duvdevan, and suddenly when he was accepted by Maglan he was satisfied. He was awarded a citation for excellence on two occasions. Everyone was surprised and we were happy that he had finally found his place."

The children are on reserve duty

On the morning of the Black Sabbath of October 7, Urija woke his mother at 7:15 am and asked her to drop him off in Nahariya. "Neither I nor Urija are the most talkative of people in the morning," she smiles, "I wanted to continue sleeping, I asked him to ask his father, and he replied that dad has already gone out riding his bike. 'Okay, then,' I replied, 'If dad is not at home then I'll take you.' I had no idea what was going on. Everything appeared quiet and peaceful. I was calm."

Within a matter of only a few hours, Zuriel was also called up, he is currently on his regular national service in an elite unit, the girls, Odelia and Rachel were also called up for reserve service, and the Bayer couple found itself with four children called up to serve in combat roles. They were forced to get the retirement home residents to go down to the basement level – the protected space, and the reservists stayed on the top floor. "I prayed and I prayed. Suddenly I was no longer able to work and I wanted to make a sign for the soldiers, the one currently hanging in the street – my idea, carried out by the German volunteers," says Nelly.

From the moment they were called up how did you manage to stay in contact?
Gideon: "It was sporadic. They were almost without phones."

Nelly: "He gave me a neck chain with the Maglan emblem and it broke. During our first phone conversation, I told him, and he calmed me down, he said he would buy a new chain. Once, the button on his uniform fell off. We have a collection of old buttons in the laundry and we decided to replace it with a special button in place of the army-issue one. In another phone conversation, he told me that whenever he thinks of me he holds that special button."

A cloud passes by Nelly and Gideon, tears roll down their cheeks. At 12:30 on December 14, they received a phone call telling them that Urija had been severely wounded. A taxi was sent to collect them and take them on the 3-hour drive to the Soroka Medical Center in Beersheba. "The army treated us as family. Not 'like' but 'as' family, Nelly stresses.

The last question I asked Micha Bayer, Gideon's brother, in an interview three and a half years ago, was if his young children would go into the army. "Certainly," he replied, "my nephews have very significant positions in the army."

The nephews belong to the children of the older brother Shlomo, who lives with his family in Shavei Zion. During the COVID-19 pandemic, Nelly and Gideon's family remained outside the retirement home so that they could bring supplies to the 'besieged facility' during lockdown. The older children were already in the army and thus presented a danger of infection.

"It was clear to the kids that they would go into the army, to their parents it was slightly less clear, to their mother not at all," Gideon smiles. "In my generation, there were no meaningful positions for us in the army. I am the only one in the family who received a call-up. There was a process – and they released me. I understood that I would be of greater significance at the retirement home than simply taking on an unimportant role in the army. We do not restrict the children nor control them. We engage in open dialogue. It is the child's right to decide something different from the opinion of his parents, and he will still remain an extremely loved individual at home."

Nelly: "The eldest daughter, Rachel, wanted to serve as a medic in the army and she served in Air Defense. Hagnash. Slowly, slowly I have begun to learn."

Gideon: "After three months she wanted a combat position, and she faced opposition from everybody, even from the community abroad. I said: 'There is no problem with you going into a combat unit, I am just not prepared for girls who want to be like boys. You should give what you can but not copy boys.' Because of this opposition, she was unsure. I told her: 'Submit an application and then let God decide. If God wants you to go to a combat unit, then you will go. And if not – then not.' She submitted an application, and they wanted to take her immediately. I know that God arranged this. I just don't know how. I know that this is the path that God chose for her. Only He knows why this is good, my vision is much more limited. I don't know why a-b-c happens. It doesn't mean that I have to understand it. I just believe that this is the correct way. As parents, I don't know that we would have let anybody go and do anything."

Nelly: "When Yonatan, Shmuel's son, joined up, and then Yair, and then Rachel, I found it all very difficult. I found it very hard to come to terms with all of it. I come from a family of Germans of Russian extract. Originally, we were on the border of Crimea, and there Catherine the Great granted my family a dispensation from serving – as long as they remained to work the land in faith and loyalty. I was brought up to do only good, not to make war. Gradually, I came to understand that the verse from the Ten Commandments 'Thou shalt not murder' is translated into German as 'Thou shalt not kill', and there is a considerable difference between the two. In Hebrew it is written: Thou shalt not murder. 'Thou shalt not kill' – that is the need to defend yourself and not 'Thou shalt not murder.'

"I also found the swearing-in ceremony in the army to be a difficult experience, but when I came to Rachel's swearing-in ceremony, it was a really uplifting experience, and that gave me a sign. There were 500 people in the crowd and you could hear a pin drop, and the Rabbi read out from the Book of Joshua, 'This is your land.' I felt as though I had received a message from God and I said to him, 'God, the children are yours.'"

How did your family in Germany react?

"Wow, wow, wow," both of them sigh, "they took it very badly." Gideon explains: "They were overcome by pacifism from the past and they also reacted due to their ignorance. But the more they saw what the girls were doing, and that they were not going around killing people, on the contrary – they were helping people, they changed their opinion. Odelia took part in a movie on women in the army and this helped them understand. They saw that she had not given up her faith and her mission. On the contrary.

"When we used to sit in the lounge, I would explain to friends from the community that it is okay that you are against weapons, against the army, I have no problem with that. Come and sit with me in the lounge and we will talk. If the army were to move from the border, then there would be no question of whether or not they would butcher us, just when they would come to do it. That was all in theory though, before October 7. Following the terrible massacre, after nobody had provoked them, there really were no more excuses. That was unequivocally what happened there. The fact that they experienced their children serving in the army gave them a completely different perspective. We received many responses in the community that they are very proud of Urija.

"As far as my belief is concerned, I cannot fathom how anybody can say that he loves God but does not love the People of Israel. I don't want anybody to love the People of Israel because they are a perfect people who never make mistakes, but because God loves them," says Gideon staunchly.

According to the verse

Q: I am curious to know, why did you decide to sit 'shiva'?

Nelly: "We were at grandma's funeral in Germany and we had an extremely unpleasant experience."

Gideon: "I am familiar with funerals and shiva from the retirement home, but here they lowered the coffin into the ground and did not cover it over with earth. They left the workers to cover it. I explained to them that I come from a country where it is a genuine honor to take part in the act of covering the coffin with earth. I remained behind to aid in covering the coffin and they simply didn't understand us. They then went home and everybody went their own separate way. It was over and done, just like that. It was clear to us that the custom of the shiva is beneficial to all parties – both for those who have lost their dearest and also for the other surrounding people too." Nelly: "During the shiva, religious women came in, they were hesitant. I didn't know them so I approached them. They came to tell us that a baby had been born at the same time that our Urija was killed and that the parents had decided to name the baby 'Urija Israel'. That was extremely moving.

"I was taken aback by the number of people who came to mourn with me. We experience this even more profoundly with our friends in Germany. They don't have a shoulder to cry on. We will probably go to Germany for an additional week, to have an additional 'shiva' for them."

Q: How would you define your community?

"We are not part of a Messianic community," Gideon tries to define something that he doesn't really wish to define, "We do not belong to any specific group. We believe in the Bible (Tanakh) and in the New Testament."

Their communities are located in Germany and Canada, and it is from here that the volunteers come. At their swearing-in ceremony, the boys, Zuriel and Urija, received a Tanakh bound together with a New Testament in one book, written in English. They were extremely proud of it.

"We did not come here to atone for what the Germans did as this is not something that can be atoned for. We came out of love for the People of Israel. I do not come as a neutral individual – I come as a German, whose nation caused tremendous hurt and suffering to the Jews," Gideon adds. In recent months, he has been working on expanding the retirement home to accommodate 72 beds according to the German standard of one bed per room, "And the Ministry of Health has approved this for us," he states with immense pride.

Why wouldn't they approve it? I ask. Nelly laughs as though I am not at all familiar with the cumbersome bureaucratic approach of the government authorities, and then she winks at Gideon: "What, that means that we won't be together in the same room?"

Q: Why Holocaust survivors of all people?

"The idea of the organization is to try and make things slightly better for the survivors, like the Good Samaritan from the New Testament, to pour oil on their wounds, to bandage them and to soothe those people who have endured such suffering."

Q: What will you do when there are no longer any Holocaust survivors?
"We work according to the verse 'Comfort, oh comfort My people Says your God.' I would be more than happy if once the generation of the Holocaust has come to an end there would be nobody else to comfort among the People of Israel. However, that simply is not how things are. We will have to see which group we can comfort more. Perhaps second-generation Holocaust survivors, or victims of terrorism and wars in Israel. We haven't decided yet. We will make these decisions together as an entire family."

The 84-year-old grandfather, Yochanan Bayer, joins in: "What can we say to the People of Israel? What is going on today is extremely painful. Nobody knows what the outcome of this awful mess will be. But one thing I do know: The People of Israel are God's people, and God's eyes are on the People of Israel the whole year round."

Q: So why did the October 7 massacre take place?

"We don't always get answers. To ask what he wanted by this, what message he was trying to convey to us. I think that we simply need to walk in the path of God, that is how I see things. We need to pray and to adhere to what God says. Pick up the Book of Psalms, it gives you a tremendous amount of strength."

The family, by the way, is no great lover of beer or soccer. Urija was the only one who liked to drink beer and his friends made beers for him with his illustration – "King Beer", and Rachel set up an entire shelf with beers in the lounge for his Israeli friends.

"I have always regarded myself as being Israeli," concludes Urija's sister Rachel, who has just been released from IDF reserve duty. She also finished pre-med studies at the University of Ariel. "This is our home," she says, 'looking for herself' just as the rest of her peers do. Her older sister, who was on a trip to Latin America, was also called up for reserve duty and released.

Just before we are about to leave, a friend from Maglan, Neta, currently attending the IDF Officers Course, who was wounded at the beginning of the week, enters on crutches. He heard on the radio what happened to Urija, and the first thing he wanted to do when he was discharged from the hospital was to go and meet the parents of his good friend, to share with them common memories.

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The post How a German-Christian soldier became a hero in Israel's Gaza War appeared first on www.israelhayom.com.

"The challenge of a filmmaker is to capture life's moments and preserve them in a movie forever, reflecting back to viewers their own lives. Seeing the perspective of another can bring about a change in consciousness and thought, and, subsequently, create a new reality."

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These words are taught at Jerusalem's Malee Film School and its special branch for the ultra-Orthodox. Established seven years ago, it caters to Haredi students ages 18-50 who gather biweekly bringing with them a glimmer of creative defiance as well as strict adherence to halacha (Jewish law). 

Twenty-five-year-old Rivka Fertig is a Maale alumna. A curious, talented and opinionated student, already in her first year she directed a film called The Distance to You which tells the story of three Haredi artists who juggle their desire to be creative and follow the laws of Judaism. 

In the spring of 2020, Fertig's movie was chosen to be screened at the Opus Festival in Tel Aviv. Another thing that stands out about The Distance to You is the choice of editor, a 25-year-old Muslim woman, Juman Daragmeh, from the Arab neighborhood of Sharafat in Jerusalem. The two were later joined by Julia Mann, also 25 years old, who is a secular filmmaker originally from Baltimore, now living in Tel Aviv. 

The three also cooperated on another project, as part of which they placed cameras at central locations in Jerusalem and asked passersby one simple question: "What did you change your mind about recently?"

After only three days of shooting the coronavirus pandemic broke out, bringing the entire film industry to a halt. 

Fertig was born in the United States, but her family made aliyah when she was just six months old. She has been living in the ultra-Orthodox city of Beit Shemesh ever since. Growing up, her family had no radio or television in the house. At the age of 9, Fertig's grandmother gave her a video camera as a gift and so began her love of filmmaking. 

"I started filming my brothers, and that became my first movie," she told Israel Hayom. "Each video was about four minutes long, one take, without editing. This is how I expressed my creativity.

"When I was 12, I flew with my mom and siblings to visit my grandparents in Baltimore, and I saw my very first movie onboard the flight, it was Hannah Montana. I thought it was amazing. A combination of everything I loved. As a child, I read a lot, and the movies were a combination of story, image and light. A power that can change the world. 

"After that, I watched movies in secret, when visiting my grandparents. They are also ultra-Orthodox, but in the States, Haredim are more modern than in Israel, and so they had television. I took every opportunity to go to my grandparents' basement and watch movies."

Nevertheless, falling in love with cinematography was not easy for Fertig. 

"It always made me feel conflicted because it is a sin, but I just could not stop. After visiting the States I would stop watching movies, but the next year, during the next visit, I would do it again. I felt guilty, but the experience was incredible and amazing."

Q: What movies did you watch?

"Whatever was available. Whenever there was a kiss scene, I looked away. But what bothered me most about movies is that people did not say a blessing over their food."

After graduating from high school, Fertig went on to study at a religious seminary, which also had film and photography classes, and "all of a sudden I found myself in the world of movies again. I realized that I could be a filmmaker without breaking halacha. I searched for a place to specialize and found Maale. 

"During my studies, I struggled thinking that perhaps filmmaking went against the ultra-Orthodox way of life. I directed a film, The Distance to You, about this inner conflict. I filmed various Haredi women who are artists, and I realized that I was not alone." 

Towards the end of her studies at Maale, Fertig was accepted to the Jerusalem Film Workshop's program that selects 24 young filmmakers from all over the world to come together in Jerusalem for six weeks and make a film. This is where she met Mann. 

Mann was born in Baltimore in a secular Jewish family. She went to a public school and attended college, but dropped out after one month. 

"I got bored," she told Israel Hayom. "The rest of the year I spent on a trip to Vietnam and Thailand, which is where I heard from other travelers about a media program at Tel Aviv University, for students abroad. I came to Israel to join the program, it seemed like an adventure, and then someone recommended JWP. 'Another adventure,' I thought to myself.

"I met Rivka on the first day of the program. When I first saw her, I only saw one thing: a long skirt, and assumed she was Haredi. My secular brain just closed off. My interactions with religious people until then consisted of Haredi men refusing to sit next to me on the plane."

But when Mann needed help with filming, she turned to Fertig, "who was the most talented cinematographer in the program." Slowly but surely, the professional collaboration turned into a friendship. 

"The way Rivka described her tremendous love for Judaism made me emotional," Mann said. 

Fertig: "I was the only religious person in the program, and I wanted to get to know Julia better. I organized a Shabbat meal at her apartment, and slowly the divide between us disappeared. By the end of the program, we became good friends." 

Mann: "We accepted each other as is. That is the basis of our friendship. One time we were walking around the central bus station in Jerusalem. People in the street were dressed like Rivka, while I was wearing my classic summer outfit: shorts and a tank top. And when we walked together, some people stared at us. Both Haredi and secular. That is when I realized that there is almost no friendship between the ultra-Orthodox and secular people. It's a shame. Rivka and I have learned so much from each other." 

As part of the program, Fertig and Mann came on a tour to the Bezalel Academy of Arts and Design in Jerusalem, during which three students screened their films. 

"One of them was exactly like my movie, just with Muslim women," Fertig said. 

The movie that made such an impression on her was directed by Daragmeh. Growing up, she studied at a mixed school in Jerusalem that had both Jewish and Muslim students. 

"It was a wonderful school, it made me more open-minded," she said. "I speak all three languages – Arabic, Hebrew and English." 

Daragmeh finished her high school studies with an emphasis on filmmaking and afterward attended Bezalel Academy and received her bachelor's degree in Screen-Based Arts (Video). 

"My film is about a Muslim girl who grew up in a fairly religious environment, and is questioning whether God truly exists. She believes he doesn't but worries that perhaps he does. She is questioning whether the stories she had been told as a child were true, whether she needed to pray five times a day or fast for an entire month [of Ramadan]. In essence, this movie is about me, about my personal doubts regarding God's existence." 

After the screening, Fertig knew she had to meet the director.

"Both of our films ask questions but do not provide answers," she said. "Even the visual symbols used in the movies are similar, as are the sites at which we filmed. We shot at the Dead Sea, in the cave near the Teddy Stadium in Jerusalem. All the motifs of freedom, redemption and imprisonment were similar in both movies as well."

Fertig approached Daragmeh to introduce herself. 

"Until meeting Juman, I had never met a single Arab person in my life," Fertig said. "I just heard about terrorist attacks and intifadas. When I was little, we even formed a gang with the neighborhood kids, including boys. We planned on fighting the Arabs with silly weapons, like ketchup."

Daragmeh's film and the conversation between the two broke many stigmas. 

"We continued to stay in touch," Fertig said. "We spoke on the phone about our films, and back then, I was looking for an editor for my final film project at Maale, and I thought of Juman."

Daragmeh: "I came to Maale, and we sat, conversed, and drank tea. It was a little strange, but pleasant. I didn't really understand that I was in a religious school. It looked like a normal place.

"I saw Rivka's footage and was fascinated by it, by the similarities between our films. I loved her cinematic language and the plot as well. The confusion of the religious and the secular worlds. I felt we were telling the same story. 

"We quickly connected. In the beginning, it had more to do with work, but with time, we became good friends. Through Rivka I met Julia and the three of us connected easily." 

The idea for all three to work on another together in Jerusalem came from Mann. 

"When I lived in New York, I made a similar movie myself," she said. "I asked people in the street to share the story of their first kiss. It was practice for me, my first attempt to make a movie. I realized that people wanted to speak, to share their stories. 

"That is when we decided to do something in such a format, to ask a relevant and personal question, nothing political. A political question would divide. Our goal was to make people change, because thinking about it alone can open the person up to the possibility."

Q: Why in Jerusalem?

Fertig: "Jerusalem is a microcosm."

Mann: "People in Jerusalem live with a long and traditional history, and it limits one's thinking. I think filming in another city would not have been as meaningful."

Q: How did people answer the question? 

Fertig: "There was one person who said he changed his mind about himself. That he judged himself less. Another person hated sports, but began playing basketball after her friend invited her, and found out, to her surprise, that she enjoyed it. There was a national religious teacher who thought that Islam was a religion of violence, and after a debate in class, he understood that he was wrong, and that Judaism and Islam had many similarities. His interview was filmed at the Machane Yehuda market, and people around him were vexed when he said Islam and Judaism were similar."

Mann: "There was a 75-year-old gentleman who used to think only academic individuals were smart, until he began talking to the sellers at the market and saw how much life wisdom they had, and how much they understood the reality around them."

Q: Have any of you changed your opinion about something during filming?

Mann: "When I first met Rivka I only saw her skirt, I thought she didn't believe in women's rights. When I spoke to her, I saw that the reality was completely different. During filming I also spoke to Haredi men, dressed in black and white, and the very fact that they spoke to me changed my opinion of them. I understood that Haredim were much more open than I had thought. That not all of them hate and despise women."

Daragmeh: "I am still unsure about religion. People said certain sentences during filming that made me contemplate, made me think that perhaps I'm wrong. That perhaps there is a God in the end. It scares me." 

Fertig: "I changed my perspective about Arabs and secular people. This process, which began with Juman and Julia, continued. I understood that not all Arabs were out to kill me, and that secular people also have values and are not just interested in physical relationships and money, like we were taught." 

Shortly before the outbreak of the pandemic in Israel, in February 2020, Daraghmeh and Fertig's movies were chosen to be screened at the Jerusalem Cinematheque to a group of secular Jews who came from the United States to Israel to learn about Judaism. The program is run by Fertig's father. 

The movies sparked a meaningful conversation about religion, diversity, and aceptance. 

Q: In your opinion, how are women portrayed in films nowadays? 

Fertig: "There is nothing on movie screens that portray the complexity of a Haredi woman. Until the film Fill the Void [by director Rama Burshtein], ultra-Orthodox women were not portrayed in films at all, and even this movie is about Hassidim, who are only part of the Haredi world. Nevertheless, even though movies might not be completely accurate, they do contribute something, and it's been getting better."

Daragmeh: "If Arab women are portrayed, it is mostly in docu-series, and these are grandmothers who talk about their lives. I personally have not seen many Muslim women portrayed in films. As for Fauda, well, it is stereotypical." 

Q: What do your families think about your love for filmography? What are their hopes for you? 

Daragmeh: "My parents are traditional, but are open-minded. We are four daughters, I am the third one. Actually, my youngest sister has gotten married, while the older ones haven't yet. My parents are not pressuring us at all." 

Mann: "My mom doesn't want me to get married. She wants me to be independent, to do as I wish." 

For Fertig, the situation is completely different. She has been encouraged to get married ever since she turned 18. 

"In shidduchim [religious dating], you need to be marriage-oriented. I can't think this way. After several attempts, I understood that I needed more time to understand who I am. I stopped for half a year, and this week, started dating again. I was set up with a Haredi young man who learns medicine at the Technion [Israel Institute of Technology in Haifa], but he wants to move to the States." 

Q: Did you tell him that have an Arab friend? 

"Yes, it did not sway him at all. He studies at the Technion, so he too has many Arab friends. My mom, on the other hand, is upset every time I say I have an Arab friend, but I cannot live life without being true to myself." 

The coronavirus year has been a challenging one for the trio. The Opus Festival was canceled, and the screening of Fertig's movie was postponed by half a year. Eventually, it was screened at the event held online. But to Fertig's delight, The Distance to You was picked to be screened at several more international film festivals. 

Daragmeh and Mann had to self-isolate, one due to coming into contact with a verified virus carried, and the other after returning to Israel from a trip abroad. Mann even got infected with the coronavirus. 

"It was tough," she recalled. "Mostly, I was alone. But Rivka was amazing, and so was her mom."

Mann was unable to step out of quarantine. 

"Julia does not have Israeli health insurance," Fertig said. "So she could not take a COVID test, and that is why she could not step out of self-isolation. My mom, who used to be a nurse, called everyone she knew and succeeded in helping Julia. She told me, 'This girl will not be left alone.' She treated Julia as her own daughter."

In the days between the lockdowns, the trio completed the shooting of their film. This week, they met to edit it and brainstorm ideas for future projects. 

Q: Did you notice any changes in the interviewees after the coronavirus?

Mann: "The project and its format have not changed, but the people's answers, and the people themselves, have. Almost everyone has experienced personal or family-related changes in this time. After the lockdowns and self-isolations, people wanted to be part of a community, and conversations with people in the street are more meaningful now than ever." 

Fertig: "I felt that people are more open to changes. Everyone has come to understand that the world can change at any moment. That it doesn't matter where you are, change will happen. That if we don't change, then reality will force us to. For example, a secular woman told me that her car broke down during the pandemic and Haredi people came to help her, and it made her change the way she thought about them."

Mann: "We filmed someone who moved to Jerusalem from Los Angeles. He wanted to move to Israel a long time ago, but every year it got postponed. The pandemic broke out exactly after he arrived, and since then, he has barely left his home. He said the coronavirus has taught him to be patient. And that if there's anything one wants to do - one should do it immediately."

Q: And how did the pandemic change you? 

Fertig: "In the first [morbidity] wave, I no longer felt the pressure to succeed, for everything came to a standstill. I had a hard time with the uncertainty, but am back to work now." 

Mann: "I am more gentle with myself, I am learning to take things more easily, understand that not everything depends on me."

Daragmeh: "I mostly think of what I can do to make the world a better place, for it is not easy."

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Although the trio preferred to leave politics aside, they did admit that the latest 11-day conflict between Israel and Hamas in the Gaza Strip was not easy. 

"In one day, everything changed," Fertig said. "My social media feed was full of hatred and death threats to Israelis and Jews, and Juman's feed was full of hatred against Arabs. We were both speechles over all the hatred towards us." 

Q: Did it affect your friendship?

Fertig: "In the beginning, each one of us, naturally, stood up for her own. There was even a little bit of animosity there, and it broke our hearts."

Q: And what did you do? 

"Talked and talked again. We saw how difficult it was to truly listen and hear the other side, so we talked more. And finally, we saw each other as two human beings again. We understood that this tiny connection between us is important, and that we allowed this hatred and fear to get to us as well.

"In the end, we decided to focus on editing our movie and do another project together to make connections between people. We want to bring across the message that one can disagree with another's opinion, but respect him or her nevertheless." 

The post Ultra-Orthodox, American, Muslim filmmakers bring coexistence to Israeli cinema appeared first on www.israelhayom.com.

More than 25,000 dunams (over 6,100 acres) of woodlands consumed by fires; thousands of residents evacuated from their homes – including dozens of patients and staff at the Eitanim psychiatric hospital; thousands of dead and wounded animals; damages to homes and farms. That is just the initial estimate of the damage caused by the massive forest fire in the Jerusalem hills this week.

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Fire and Rescue Service Commissioner David Simchi said the fire was of the same dimensions as the 2010 Mount Carmel forest fire disaster, and the fact that there was no loss of life this time around was a major achievement. But many argue that the writing was on the wall, and raise several difficult questions regarding the preparedness of the fire and rescue services, the shortfall in personnel, the skills possessed by the fire fighters, the availability of firefighting planes, and the conduct of the fire service senior echelons.

"In the final outcome all the billions spent by the state of Israel on the firefighting service since the Mount Carmel disaster did not have the required effect," says L., a senior firefighter from the Jerusalem District who took part in the firefighting efforts this week. "Planes and a few new fire trucks can't be the game changer in the face of fires of that scale. The fire service needs at least twice as much manpower than it currently has, otherwise we can't deal with fires like this quickly and efficiently.

"The top brass says that there are 2,200 active firefighters. We need at least 5,000. Fixing the damages caused by these fires costs a lot more than 2,500 firefighters."

Q: What do you think was wrong with the way this week's fires were handled?

"In the evening hours of Sunday, the first day of the fires, the commissioner declared that the fire was under control, despite weather conditions that pointed to the event being far from over. He made a mistake in his situational evaluation.

"At night the fires die down because there are no winds, but in the morning, I and others involved, including personnel from the firefighting plane squadron, requested that all the planes be sent up, not just some of them, but the commissioner refused. In the afternoon the winds picked up and the fires renewed. The forces on the ground were exhausted and there were only a few planes in the air - and then they called for more forces and even spoke about international aid.

"When additional forces arrived there as chaos on the ground, Firefighters got lost and it was a miracle that a disaster didn't happen. In events like that it is the police that are in charge, but the commissioner refused to sit with them in the command and control center so we end up with two command and control centers, one for the fire service and the other for the police. Things just got messier.

"In my opinion, the reason for all of that was a mistaken situational evaluation and misunderstanding of the weather conditions. The area was split up into six sectors, and four of them were given to firefighting officers who came from the army and don't have any knowledge of firefighting. The most difficult sector, around Kibbutz Tzuba, was given to the commander of the firefighters training college, an infantry officer, who came to the fire service about a year ago from the army.

"It's about time that events like these undergo an investigation by external professionals who have no interest in a cover-up. The inquiries regarding previous disasters such as the fires in Nof HaGalil and Mevo Modiim don't reflect reality. Unfortunately, that's what's likely to happen this time around as well."

Those aren't the only claims about improper coordination between the fire service and the police. "On Monday, while the fire was burning out of control and residents were being evacuated from their homes, police and fire service representatives couldn't even decide in which command and control center they would sit," says a person in the fire service. "At the end of the day the two bodies set up two command and control centers, and low-level officers from each body were sent to meetings and situational assessments. Regional commanders, the police commissioner and the fire service commissioner didn't sit together to conduct a joint situational assessment, except for one occasion when the incident began, and even then, the only thing that interested them was how they were going to be photographed for the press.

"The result was a complete lack of coordination between the police and the fire service. The police said roads should be closed; the fire service wanted them kept open. The firefighting plane squadron wanted aircraft in the air; the fire service was opposed. There was no dialogue, commands coming down to the ground were contradictory, and meanwhile everything was burning.

There were also accusations of fighting between the various bodies over the role of the fire fighting plane squadron. Israel's aerial firefighting unit falls under the command of the Israel Police and is composed of members of the aerial unit of the Israel Police, the field unit of the National Fire and Rescue Authority, and civilian companies Elbit and Clear-Cut Aviation.

This complexity, say senior fire and rescue officials speaking off the record, leads to a clash of egos between the police and the fire service, and this often creates disputes and delays in getting planes in the air.

"Managing aerial operations is extremely complex," says chief superintendent  Tomer Brenner, the firefighting squadron commander. "There are a lot of different bodies involved that have to work together. Sometimes it works smoothly, sometimes things are more difficult. Sometimes people agree and sometimes they don't.

"I always try to make the best decision for the State of Israel. If we hadn't acted as we did during the fire, six communities would have been burned to the ground."

Q: What actions did you take?

"Our planes have a limited capacity to carry fire retardants, so it is best that they take off as soon as the fire is spotted. We received a report of a fire on Sunday at 3:15 p.m. via a civilian who reported it to the fire service. We were sent in by the fire service as part of a procedure called "liberal take-off." The procedure which was the result of the lessons of previous incidents, states that in areas where it will take fire trucks too long to get to the scene, planes can be sent up first.

"We sent up two planes, and I managed the incident from the command and control center. I opened the window and saw the cloud of smoke. The first report was that the fire was advancing at a pace of one kilometer every ten minutes due to weather conditions. The implications of this are a very complex event, and immediately sent up all the remaining places in the squadron, 12 altogether. The planes worked until nightfall."

A senior fire service source claims that the following morning the squadron wanted to send up all its planes, but the fire service commission believed there was no need to do so.

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"In the afternoon the fire grew very strong, and it was decided to use all the air power available in Israel. International aid was also considered. On Tuesday we went at the fire as quickly as possible and managed to gain control."

Q: Are there things you feel you should have done differently?

 "I would do a lot of things differently but I prefer to debrief them with the relevant professional authorities and not in the media."

Q: Are there plans to increase the size of the squadron so that you will be able to deal with large fires?

We are in the midst of a process of purchasing planes with a larger payload capacity. It's a very complex issue that depends on the state budget and other factors. The order is supposed to go out soon, but even then, it will take two years for the planes to arrive."

Failings in dealing with fires in Israel are nothing new. Only last month, senior former fire service officers, municipal chiefs, firefighters, safety experts, residents and volunteers   about a severe shortage of manpower and equipment, delays in operations of firefighting planes, misunderstanding of ground conditions, and an absence of operational plans. They all warned that, "it's a question of when, not if, a disaster will happen." Over and again, we heard the words: "Don't let anyone say they didn't know."

At the beginning of June, three large fires, apparently caused by arson, burned out of control in the Jerusalem Hills. The cost was heavy: Thousands of dunams of woodland were consumed by the fires and dozens of residents of nearby communities were evacuated.

Doron (not his real name), a firefighter from Jerusalem, was called to fires in Tzur Hadassah and Ma'aleh Hahamisha when they were already out of control. "The fire could have been doused within an hour," says Doron. "There was no need to reach a situation where teams from around the country had to be called in to fight the fire.

In my district, what happens on a regular basis is that the officer managing an incident conducts a situational assessment, asks for ten firefighting teams and then gets barely five, because someone is saving on budgets and there is a manpower shortage. You have to beg. At the fire in Har Haruach and Ma'aleh Hahamisha we asked for ten teams, but we got three. At a fire near Moshav Ora, it was a miracle that the moshav wasn't burnt down. We asked for firefighting planes and crews, but we didn't get them."

Q: Why does it take two hours for planes to get to the scene?

The fire service has an agreement with Elbit Systems, which operates the firefighting squadron and is paid per work hour and on call hours. Somebody gambled and let the pilots be on call from home rather than from the base so that it would cost less. If the pilots had been on call at the base, they would have got to the scene within 15 minutes."

The Carmel disaster in December 2010 was a turning point with respect to firefighting in Israel. The previously municipal fire departments were all brought under the Israel Fire and Rescue Authority Law and placed under the purview of the Public Security Ministry, and the fire and rescue designated a commissioner, giving him full operational authority.

The commission received large budgets and a firefighting squadron with 14 places each able to carry 3,000 liters of fire retardant. The planes are stationed at two permanent run strips: Meggido in the North and Kedma in the South. Last year they handled over 200 fires in open areas. According to the Fire and Rescue Authority, since the Carmel Disaster some 300 fire and rescue vehicles adaptable to all scenarios have been purchased.

In 2014, the Knesset drafted regulations covering the protection of communities from forest fires, however due to budgetary disagreements between various government offices, the ordinances have yet to be approved. In 2015, then-State Comptroller Joseph Shapira released a report on the preparations of municipal authorities for fires and weather-related hazards. Shapira wrote that the "existing infrastructure does not give any entity the authority to enforce upon local authorities' compliance with instructions regarding emergency situations including fires and extraordinary weather-related damages. The preparedness of local authorities for such situations depends on their desire to comply with given instructions and on the resources, they choose to allocate. Some local authorities are not prepared and are not properly prepared or equipped for fires."

The State Comptroller also issued a report in June of this year that painted a difficult picture regarding preparedness for fires in Israel: "Over 40,000 fires occur in Israel every year, on average 100 a day. There are 126 firefighting stations around the country; 1,641 firefighters and commanders man 72% of the operational standard. There is a shortage of 1,675 firefighters to reach the target set by the Authority."

Figures presented by the Fire and Rescue Authority show a slightly different picture with 2,200 fighters and 1,000 support personnel.

A report by the Knesset research center in September 2017 stated that Israel has 120 fire stations and is short 105 stations to reach the optimal number.

"To put it simply – there is no money," says Haim Rokach, head of the Golan Regional Council and head of safety and emergency preparedness at the Federation of Regional Councils. "We are supposed to create firebreaks, thin forests, place fire-fighting systems around communities, prepare fire trails, put in fire hydrants. It will cost millions.

"I'm not ashamed to say that I'm scared. A Technion report filed in 2012 at the request of the Ministry of the Interior found that the required response time of a fire truck is seven minutes, while the longest it should take is 15 minutes, but we don't meet those standards. We are simply being abandoned."

Yosef Ben Yosef, CEO of the Yavniel local council, left the fire service a year and half ago after 30 years. His last position was commander of the Tiberias fire station.

He says that the Carmel disaster caused positive shock waves in the fire service. "We were moved to the Ministry of Public Security; the firefighting squadron was established and so was an academy for training firefighters. I was part of a program to train firefighters in the French system called Forest Fire Defense, which includes five levels of training for commanders in command and control of fires in open ground and forests. The training was funded by the European Union. Several groups of firefighters, officers and commanders went through the program. A computerized firefighting system and a simulator were put into use, with technological adaptations made for local conditions.

"In 2017, when the new commissioner David Simchi took up his position, he claimed that isn't the way to teach and the program was stopped. But no other method has been introduced. So in one go, the professional issue and in particular the issue of firefighting programs was shunted aside. But the recent fires in the Jerusalem Hills prove that preparation is required: preparation of scenarios and action modes. You can't be responsive and just rely on luck.

Worse yet, the number of new people employed at headquarters is completely disproportionate to the number of firefighters. The State Comptroller noted that there are too many support staff and not enough firefighters. The new commissioner was uncomfortable with the worker's committee and decided to fight them. This led to a lack of trust between the command echelon and the operational level. When the firefighters don't believe in the commander, they don't do what they know how to do best – put out fires."

Yuval (not his real name) is the head of a fire station in the center of the country. He too believes that the shortcomings are a result of mismanagement of manpower. "At my station, and at other stations as well, the firefighters no longer receive overtime, even on days with extreme weather conditions when we need to beef up teams.

"The standard set by the United States Fire Administration (which is a professional beacon to fire authorities worldwide) is one firefighter per one thousand residents. According to this standard I should have 400 firefighters, but I have just 100. That means that I am working much of the time under the red line of minimal operational readiness. If there is a fire and I send teams, I am left exposed in the area I am responsible for.

"What's more, what happens to a firefighter when there is no overtime? His fighting spirit is low. The commissioner's fight against the firefighters really hit them hard and there is no lack of incidents where there were failures as a result."

The 2015 State Comptroller's report lists a series of steps to be taken by localities: preparation of buffer lines and perimeter access roads; maintenance of access roads to communities and maintenance of the main roads within them; peripheral water supply lines with fire hydrants 100 meters (328 feet) apart, a fire-fighting equipment stockpile in every locality, and more.

The report states: "The State Comptroller's Office believes that in view of the danger presented by fires to localities close to or within forests, the Ministry of Public Security and the Ministry of the Interior, together with the Finance Ministry, the Federation of Local Authorities and the Federation of Regional Councils must act with haste to authorize ordinances to defend the localities against forest fires. Any delay in providing a defensive envelope for the localities and roads, and in establishing firefighting stockpiles could lead to loss of life and damage to property."

Alon Biton, the security officer of the Federation of Local Authorities, believes that the solution is to have one body that is responsible for the issue. "A government body operating under the Ministry of the Interior that will connect between the various government ministries and define their authority.  The goal is to approve and budget a master plan for fire readiness, especially with regard to buffer lines. To define security rings, decide what types of trees can be planted within each locality, and create national priorities for the localities depending on their degree of risk.

"After the fire in Nof HaGalil, we set up a pilot program to establish buffer lines according to the guidelines. I hope this will be followed up with practical steps, but without budgets it's all just talk. No local authority can afford those kinds of costs. I hope the new Knesset will find the required funds."

Keren Kayemet LeIsrael-Jewish National Fund [the body that administers Israel's forests] isn't waiting for the regulator to allocate budgets. "After the Carmel Disaster we established buffer lines between forests and communities next to forests in more than 400 sectors covering 30,000 dunams [7,400 acres]," says Gilad Ostrovsky, director of forestry at KKL-JNF. "In some places we also set up buffer lines within forests to prevent fires from spreading and enable access to fire and rescue service vehicles. We also brought in Beduin shepherds from the south to graze with their herds and get rid of the dry grasses that could become flammable materials.

"We have 24 of our own fire trucks operated by KKL-JNF employees. From the start of the fire season on May 1, we have lookouts watching over the forests to detect fires quickly. We are also building a master plan for all the forests which takes into account research on how fires behave differently in different places."

Q: Why isn't there a ban on lighting fires in forests?

"On days where we receive fire warnings from the meteorological service, we put out a notice to the public that it is forbidden to light fires in the forests. We have rangers on patrol, but we are talking about very large areas and we don't have the authority to give fines. We are working on a "Forest Law" that will give us the authority to give out fines. I hope we will manage to pass it in the current Knesset."

Simchi said in July that "what I have improved in the past four years hasn't been done in 40 years. We have added 500 new firefighters, including 80 from the Arab sector, and we have recruited Arab citizens to national service as firefighting support personnel.

"I set up a research and development division. One of the products of its work is the addition of chemical retardants to water which has made firefighting with water hoses much more efficient. A year ago, I put robots into use for life endangering missions, and we are shortly planning to launch a pilot program employing drones, UAVs and ground cameras to locate fires in real time.

"Our squadron operates, according to our operational concept, only in the summer season, and responds to fires by classification: saving lives, homes, and then nature. In high fire index situations, we put planes in the air to detect fires before they spread. In high-risk areas we put planes in the air before the fire trucks.

"The firefighting budget is NIS 1.4 billion [$432 million] per year, of which NIS 70 million [$22 million] is allocated to the firefighting squadron. I have to manage those resources. There is a limitation of flying hours. In situational assessments we look at whether there is a danger to a locality, and whether there is a need for the squadron elsewhere. I have to meet the cost-benefit test, and manage national risks."

The National Fire and Rescue Authority said in response: "We do not intend to address false allegations based on cheap gossip, at best, on behalf of self-interested parties driven by extraneous considerations. The development of firefighting in recent years has nothing to do with all of this. These allegations are part of repeated attempts to harm the senior fire service command, officers and firefighters, while purposely ignoring reality, and facts on the ground."

No response was available from the Israel Police.

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Lama Al-Manar, 36, doesn't remember what she put into the small bag she was carrying when she stepped into a Red Crescent ambulance, other than medical documents. She doesn't remember the last words her husband, who was riding with her, said to her before they separated at the Erez crossing. She doesn't know whether he followed them with his gaze when she walked toward the crossing and passed from the Gaza Strip to Israel, where a Magen David Adom ambulance was waiting for her.

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From the moment she left Shifa Hospital that afternoon, until she arrived at Sheba Medical Center at Tel Hashomer some five hours later, Lima's eyes never left the incubator that was holding her son, Abdullah, 2.5 months old, whose tiny body was receiving oxygen.

She also wouldn't have remembered what day it was if they hadn't explained how lucky she had been. It was Monday, May 10, 2021, the day on which Operation Guardian of the Walls against Hamas infrastructure in Gaza began. The ambulance that brought her and her son to Israel was the last allowed through Erez crossing before it was closed for 13 days.

Three children are waiting for her at home. Two years ago, she gave birth to a stillborn child, and when she became pregnant for the fifth time, she was eager for the new baby to bring joy back to the home. But Abdullah was born two months prematurely with a complicated heart defect and Lamaand her husband realized they would need to fight for his life.

"I was afraid. His condition wasn't good," Lama says. "He lost weight, and his breathing and other parameters slowed. I prayed to God to heal him. To fight for his little life. A doctor at Shifa Hospital recommended that we send him to Israel for treatment. My husband reached out to the Shevet Achim organization to help us get him there."

Thursday afternoon, the 11^th day of the Gaza campaign. The radio reports a rocket alert in Ashkelon, and then a direct hit on a residential building. We arrive at the parking structure attached to the labor ward at Sheba Medical Center, which is next to the Edmond and Lily Safra Children's Hospital. The children's ICU was transferred here on the fifth day of the fighting for fear of rocket hits.

We go down one floor. After walking through the gray halls lined with oxygen tanks at the ready, we encounter a colorful sign decorated with a drawing of a sun and a kite: "Protected Children's ICU." Reality stays outside.

In the parking structure, which was filled with cars the previous week, there are 40 small beds. Each one takes up two parking places, and holds a small baby who is hooked up to medical equipment. Nearby is a treatment station, a computer, and a lounge chair for adults.

The beds are separated by flowered curtains that were hung on the metal pipes that line the parking garage's ceiling. No one closes the curtains. There are also hanging screens that are attached to monitors that fill the space with dim beeping.

In the center of the improvised unit are a dialysis cart and another cart that holds equipment for chest drainage. Sometimes, a baby's cry can be heard. It is weak, and starts and stops quickly.

Over bed No. 26 a sign reads: "Abdullah Al-Manar. Date of birth: Feb. 26, 2021. Weight: 1.6 kg (3.52 pounds)." Lamasits on the chair and watches Shani, the nurse, take off Abdullah's cloth diaper, exposing a large incision that runs from his chest to his belly. Shani changes the dressing, rubs cream on it, puts his medicine into the IV bag attached to his small arm, and covers him gently.

In the next bed lies three-month-old Rana, who is recovering from her third open heart surgery, which she underwent two days earlier. On the left is Yazen, a month old, who had a catheterization.

Dr. Evyatar Hubara, 43, a senior doctor on the unit, moves from bed to bed. He slept three hours the night before due to the number of cases.

"The three children from Gaza suffer from complicated heart defects," Hubara explains. "They came to us in serious condition, among other reasons because it took time from when the problem was diagnosed in Gaza until their transfer to us could be coordinated, all the permits received, and that's without changing ambulances at Erez and the bumpy journey. Right now, all three are in an acute stage. We still haven't gotten to the rehabilitation state, which will begin here and continue in Gaza," he says.

Hubara stops by Abdullah's bed and looks at him warmly. "Abdullah was born prematurely and was incorrectly diagnosed in Gaza. The doctors … performed the wrong operation on him when he was two months old. A week after the operation, he began to decline, and a week after that he reached us. In the first few hours we needed to stabilize him and keep his blood pressure steady with medication.

"We started to look into the problem. We did an MRI and other tests. Before every stage, we explained to his mother what we were going to do. She trusted us from the beginning. After we stabilized him, we found that the true defect he was suffering from was an aortic valve stenosis. It turned out that in Gaza they had tried to close the ductus, but closed one of the main arteries by mistake.

"In the insane Israeli reality, we had to protect ourselves against rockets from Gaza along with the babies who come from here," he says.

"I remember one siren that caught me on the unit, before we moved to the parking structure. All the mothers, Jewish and Arab, just grabbed their babies – the ones that weren't hooked up to machines – and ran to a safe space. I shouted, 'We have time, 90 seconds, go slowly so you won't fall with the kids.' Everyone gathered around in the safe space. Staff members and patients, Jews and Arabs together. The shocking sight of the mothers who ran there with their babies doesn't leave me," Hubara recalls.

Not all the mothers were able to take their babies to a safe space. Abdullah, Rana, and Yazen, as well as another 12 Israeli babies, are on respiratory equipment, and they were unprotected during the first rocket alerts. This is why the hospital administration decided to move the entire department from the sixth floor to the underground parking garage. Here, the sirens can't even be heard.

We go with Lama, Raida, and Samira into the staff room, located at the exit. The room has a big refrigerator full of popsicles donated to the children and the staff who care for them. Every few minutes, a parent or a staff member comes in and takes one.

About a year ago, when the COVID pandemic was still raging in Israel, a COVID unit opened in this same parking structure to ease the mass of patients that was overwhelming the hospitals. That event seems like ancient history, and the only thing that remains of it are the letters of thanks stuck to the door. It seems as if this is the last place in the country where people are careful to wear masks, and wear them properly.

The three Gaza women are embarrassed. They aren't used to being interviewed. All three are wearing abayas, long dresses that include head coverings, as well as hijabs and surgical masks. Since they arrived in Israel, they have been sleeping here, on the unit, in the recliner chairs next to their children's beds. They are also given meals. Once every few days, they allow themselves to go upstairs and shower. None of them speaks any language other than Arabic, with the exception of a few words of Hebrew or English. Moshe Ravid, 26, a nursing student from Jaffa and a volunteer with the Shevet Achim organization, translates.

Raida (Umm Ahmad), 48, is from Khan Younis. She is Rana's grandmother, a housewife and mother of six.

"My daughter-in-law, Rana's mother, came to Israel with her in February, two weeks after she was born," she says. "After two weeks, she was tired and not feeling well. Because she has a four-year-old at home, she called me and asked me to switch with her. She went back to Gaza, and since then, I've been here. Three months already. This is my first time in Israel."

Q: Were you afraid?

"No, why should I be afraid? My husband worked in Bat Yam for 20 years. Every day, he went from Gaza to Bat Yam, until the disengagement in 2005. After that, he found work in Gaza. He told me that there are good people in Israel, that everyone here is all right."

Abdullah's mother Lama, 36, is wearing a brown abaya accessorized with a shining silver star. Her smartphone has a pink cover. She works in a laboratory, and her husband is a producer for Palestinian television in Gaza. She has two other sons, 11 and six, at home, as well as a three-and-a-half-year-old daughter.

"My mother had cancer. She went to Israel to be treated, and recovered," Lama says. "She told me that everything is good here. When Abdullah's condition got worse, the doctor recommended that we come to Israel. My husband reached out to Shevet Achim. Now he and my mother are watching the three other kids at home."

Q: What do you tell your families about what is happening here?

Lama: "They're afraid for us, and we're afraid for them. When they call to hear how we are, I answer, 'Al Hamdullah,' so they won't be scared and worry, and when I call to ask how they are, they say the same thing. We talk about the boy, how he ate, how much he ate, how much he slept.

"I tell them that the doctors here are good, that they treat us well, answer all our questions. I tell them that the food is excellent, that the women have nice clothes, about their hairstyles. I like the fashion in Israel, and the grilled chicken breast and salad they serve at the hospital."

Raida: "The medical staff thinks only about the children – whether their condition has improved, what they ate, how they slept. We sit next to their beds, don't know how they'll be from one moment to the next, whether they'll get better at all."

Q: Do they send you pictures of the strikes on Gaza?

"They send me pictures of the special Ramadan sweets," Raida answers, with a smile.

Samira, 62, is the grandmother of Yazen, who is only a month old. "I have nine grown children, and my son has four children other than Yazen. Their mother needs to take care of them, so they asked me to accompany the child. At home, when we talk about Israel, we only talk about the medical treatment we want to get here."

Moshe, the translator, tells them in Arabic not to be frightened, that they can speak freely. They all answer at once: "We aren't afraid, we're speaking honestly. Everyone wants peace. We want it to be all right."

Samira: "Inshallah, things will calm down. We aren't dealing with politics."

Q: What did you do when people in Gaza fired rockets toward this area?

Raida: "What everyone else did. The nurses took us to a safe place. The babies stayed on the unit, hooked up to respirators. I was worried about them, that they were alone, but everyone calmed us down, said that it would all be fine."

Lama: "We tried to talk to the other people in the safe area, without understanding one another. Everyone wants to know how the other's child is doing. He's sorry about my son, and I'm sorry about his."

Q: Did your families leave their homes because of the airstrikes?

Raida: "No. Everyone is in his own home."

Q: Are any of your family members involved in the fighting?

All three shake their heads, no. "Not everyone in Gaza enlists in the army," Raida says. "My husband worked in Israel. Half of Gaza used to work in Israel. You must have seen the workers who would come from Gaza."

Samira: "My father and my husband used to work in Israel."

Q: In Israel, they cancelled school because of the rockets. Do the children in Gaza go to school [now]?

Raida: "No, but that's nothing new. It's been that way since COVID started."

Lama: "In the past two months, the COVID situation has been really bad. On weekends, Gaza is under a lockdown."

Raida: "There are no vaccines in Gaza."

Lama: "Even if there were vaccines, I wouldn't get vaccinated. I'm afraid of the side effects."

From the moment they arrived in Israel, they haven't set foot outside the hospital grounds. The farthest away they've been is to the little shopping center that is on the premises. They see Israel as a little bubble inside Sheba, not the other way around.

Q: What does your day here look like?

Raida: "There's not really a schedule. We don't really sleep. The doctors and nurses come in around the clock to check on the children. We're always awake. Most of the day I pray and ask God to cure Rana."

Samira: "It's hard to rest. We always have our eyes on the children, what happened with the ECO and the other tests."

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Rana, age three months, has already been through three open-heart surgeries. "When I was waiting for her to come out of the third surgery, an Israeli woman came up and asked how my granddaughter was," Raida says, moved. "I don't understand Hebrew and she doesn't understand Arabic, but I understood her question from her eyes. I knew she was hoping for good news. I asked her about her daughter."

Q: Have you learned any Hebrew since you arrived?

""I'm trying to learn," says Raida, and adds in Hebrew, "I know how to say 'grandma.'"

Q: When are you going home?

Raida's eyes fill with tears. "Rana's chest is still open from the last surgery. I'm sitting with you and laughing, but my heart is crying. So I'm telling you that my every thought is for the baby. That's our situation."

Lama: "Today, Dr. Evytar said that Abdullah has an infection in his right lung, which was good. Until now he had one in his left lung. I hope it works out. I'll go back to Gaza when he gets better, but I don't know when."

Hospital Director Dr. Itai Pessach says that every year, the center treats about 500 children from Gaza and another 2,700 children from the Palestinian Authority. "They range in age from a week to 18. Some of the children arrive through the Shevet Achim organization, and others through our own coordinator."

"During the last military operation, our doctor colleagues in Gaza reached out to us about children in serious condition, and we fought to bring them to Israel during the operation. Unfortunately, we didn't succeed, and that's very sad. I'm happy we're getting back to normal," Pessach says.

According to Pessach, "we don't see any difference between a child who comes from Gaza, Nablus, or Tiberias. Our treatment looks at all the child's needs, including emotional needs and school work at the school that operates on the hospital grounds. A year ago, a nine-year-old boy with cancer arrived from Gaza who didn't know how to read and write. He returned to Gaza last month, after a year-long hospitalization, healthy and knowing how to read and write in Hebrew, Arabic, and even English."

Q: How did the patients respond to this during the Gaza fighting?

"A family from Gaza arrived two days before the operation started, and we diagnosed their son with a rare disease, one that only seven children in Israel have. By chance, two rooms away there was a Haredi family with a child who had been diagnosed with the same disease two months ago. While the rockets were falling, the Haredi mother insisted on meeting the mother from Gaza and teaching her everything she knew about the disease and how to treat it."

"There is a truly shared fate here. They feel that they're fighting against something bigger than rockets. To get better, a patient needs to feel secure, and that's what we're doing. A hospital is a home for all the patients.

"I'm happy to say that the external tensions didn't creep into the work. There was no tension between the staff and the patients. The good of the patient always comes before everything else. Even at administration meetings – everyone put aside their own political views and we managed to provide a quality medical response and protect the safety of the staff and patients," Pessach says.

The funding for the Gaza children's treatment comes mainly from donors – mostly American Christians, and some Israelis.

"Saving the life of the child is an entire world," says Jonathan Miles, founder of Shevet Achim. Miles arrive in Israel from the US in the 1990s, as a journalist, and started to volunteer with the group Christian Friends of Israel.

"We welcomed Russian immigrants to Israel. We wanted them to understand that the Jewish people have friends in the world. One day a mother from Ukraine whose child's life was in danger came to me. She had no money for medical treatment, and she begged me to help. I started raising money to help him. Wizo helped a lot, as did other people, both Jews and Christians.

"After that, I heard about sick babies in Gaza, and in 1994 I founded the organization. We bring children from Muslim states to Israel for treatment."

Amar Shami, 32, who coordinates the transfer of children from Gaza to Israel for Shevet Achim, lives in Jerusalem.

"The families who go back to Gaza tell each other about the treatment in Israel," he says. "One mother tells another. When the child has a problem, they reach out to me. Sometimes the doctors reach out directly."

Shami was born in the village of Batir, near Bethlehem. He takes temporary jobs and has volunteered with the organization for four years. "I got to know the organization through my father, who volunteered with it before me. I saw what they do and I wanted to help children, too."

For every child, Shami submits a request to the IDF to allow them through Erez crossing. The request includes their medical documents, a recommendation from Gaza doctors that they be treated in Israel, and details about the accompanying adult, who must be cleared by the Shin Bet security agency.

Shami says that sometimes the adult is rejected, and he is told to submit a request for another one. "There are cases where the army coordinators recommend that I switch the accompanying adult ahead of time, even before the refusal comes through. Mostly when they're young men, who apparently pose a bigger security risk. In general, we get approval within 48 hours, but there were cases when a child in critical condition had to leave Gaza the same day, and we got approval for it."

Q: And what happens when there is an escalation of fighting in Gaza?

"It's hard. The crossing is closed. Children who were supposed to go back to Gaza after an operation stay with their adults in apartments the organization owns in Jaffa and Jerusalem, because we can't send them back. During the latest fighting, we got at least 15 requests for children who needed urgent, lifesaving treatment, but we couldn't bring them over. We brought them in as soon as Erez crossing opened."

In the children's ICU, there are no stuffed animals or balloons. Each family hopes their child will wake up and be transferred to recovery and rehabilitation on the pediatrics ward.

"My feeling during the Gaza fighting was mixed, or to put it gently – unpleasant," says Boris Fizdel, 39, head nurse on the pediatric ICU, who lives in Ashdod.

"At home in Ashdod I have a wife and two children, ages six and nine, and work is my second home. During the Gaza operation, I was torn between the two. I was in Ashdod only three hours a day because we were so busy on the unit, so the hospital became my first home.

"When I leave for work, I hope that the rocket siren won't go off while I'm on the way. It happened once. It was strange to hear on the radio that there were sirens in Ashdod and also see an Iron Dome interception off to my right. At the hospital, we put politics aside, separate it from our work. We really do everything we can to provide the best treatment. I don't care where they come from, if it's during a war or not. There are children here from all over the world, with every medical problem that exists. We're human beings.

"When rockets are fired at Ashdod, what I care about is that my kids are in the safe room. I stop work to call my wife and ask what's going on, and go back to treating patients. And then there's another siren, I call home again, and back to work. I make sure that the treatment I provide isn't influenced by what's happening at home," he says.

Dr. Hubara arrives for another round of the unit. Next to Rana's bed, I ask him if heart defects are more common in Gaza than in other places.

"The sense is that yes, because of the complexity of the defects as well, but the matter hasn't been studied. In any case, heart defects are more common in populations that don't do genetic screenings and prenatal screenings."

Q: And what happens after they return home?

"We contact a hospital in Gaza and instruct the staff. Treatment that can be given in Gaza, is given in Gaza. They have resources, but not always high-quality. Children come back to us for observation after a month or two and are seen by a cardiologist and the rehab staff. Some children need a series of operations, and when they come for the second one, they need to go into it in optimal condition. That doesn't always happen. Then, either the surgery is postponed, or they go into the second and third surgeries in serious condition. It's a very complicated reality."

Q: What goes through your mind while you're busy providing treatment and rockets are flying outside?

"Inside the hospital, we detach. We only want to help them. When you go out you realize that reality is different. We hope that when the families from Gaza go home, they will sort of be our emissaries, say good things about Israel."

The night that the ceasefire between Israel and Hamas took effect, Rana's heart stopped beating, despite the doctors' best efforts. Her grandmother, Raida, left the hospital weeping. She was driven to a Shevet Achim apartment in Jaffa. When Erez crossing opened, she returned to Gaza with Rana's coffin.

The post With all their hearts appeared first on www.israelhayom.com.

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Hours have passed and they haven't made a sound. It's the lesson they learned on their first day of training: "Talk with your eyes." Every blink, raised eyebrow and finger movement has meaning. It's how they signal danger, or that they are ready to execute. It's impossible to spot them – they are heavily camouflaged under the cover of darkness. They are each acutely attuned to their teammates. They understand one another intimately.

When they are all ready, the squad leader gestures with a quick nod: time to execute. And then they're gone, vanishing into the night. No one will hear about the mission they will have carried out, yet it is integral to many other operations.

This is the public's first opportunity to learn about them.

Some four years ago, in a manner of secrecy typical to the Intelligence Directorate, 8200 established its first company of female warriors. The company operates within the framework of 8200's combat intelligence unit, which meshes infantry and technology to form the Directorate's reconnaissance outfit. Unlike other combat units in the army, the soldiers here are first and foremost tech wizards. This is also how they are recruited to the unit: Their technological proficiency is tested first; and only then their physical acumen and qualifications as combat soldiers.

"We recruit the male and female fighters of the highest caliber, who are also at the highest level technologically," says Lt. Col. D (36), who has commanded the unit for several months.

The combat intelligence unit is 8200's forward operating arm in the field, and it can reach places a keyboard can't reach. The fighters don't just bring the technology to the front, they also operate it. Inside enemy territory, or close to it, they are supposed to do what developers and programmers cannot do from afar.

Theoretically, this era is a technological Garden of Eden. Everyone has a computer, everyone uses the Internet and sends emails; everyone has a cell phone, Facebook, WhatsApp. All these create a never-ending flow of information. The attacker only needs to develop the tools and methods to gather this information and analyze it – and he has everything.

The reality, of course, is far less simple. First, you need to gather the information. Conversations on WhatsApp, for example, are encrypted from end to end. Apple software, meanwhile, (unlike Android) is not open-sourced. Very few countries are capable of bypassing protections and encryptions and doing so without leaving a fingerprint.

Second, you need the ability to sift through the information. In the past, the brunt of information was via signals intelligence, or SIGINT (or, in simple English, wire-taps). 8200 eavesdropped on phone calls, and the important information was kicked up the priority list. This can only be done on a small scale, but anyone who wants to compile hundreds of millions of emails, personal messages and other sources of information per day, needs super systems capable of storing the information and analyzing it automatically.

Third, and most importantly, the enemy is also learning and improving. Whether in terms of collecting information in the cybersphere, an area in which Iran is particularly active, but also where Hamas is showing surprising and methodical advancements; and in terms of defending against Israeli activity, through upgraded systems and drastic security measures. Most terrorist elements (in Gaza, Judea and Samaria and Lebanon) understood that Israel is a technological superpower, and long ago transitioned to communicating via alternative means. They don't allow cell phones in meetings, knowing their microphones or cameras can be remotely activated, avoid sending electronic messages or mail, and often use codewords.

"We are more exposed than the average IDF soldier to these capabilities of our enemies," says Lt. Col. D. "The information security component has become dramatic for them. It obligates us to protect ourselves and to safeguard our operational methods and technology, so it stays a secret, and at the same time find breaches on the other side and exploit them."

All of these defenses are very difficult, and sometimes impossible, to bypass remotely; hence the need to make physical contact with the enemy. On his home turf, in his home, and sometimes even up close and personal. The unit does its work in the field – this can be a sleepy Palestinian village in the dead of night, but also enemy territory across the border, with the potential of a firefight. The unit's soldiers operate across all arenas, in any environment. Consequently, a great deal of planning and studying is required before each mission, to adapt the operational methods to the conditions on the ground.

It is there that the warriors of 8200 implement what they've learned. In the past this involved SIGINT, to bring the IDF's ears closer to the target. Today, in the cyber age, this involves different technologies and tools, far more sophisticated in nature. Sometimes the job is to install a device, other times to remove a device, and occasionally it means decrypting something in the field to collect data in real-time. Each mission requires a different operational solution, which is sometimes tailor-made for the unit and on a one-time basis. There is no such thing as a defined operational protocol because no two missions are the same. The soldiers must modify themselves to each individual mission, a far cry from the concept employed by many IDF units.

The unit's advantage is its parent unit, 8200, which is divided into departments, each with a specialized focus mostly pertaining to the cybersphere. The combat intelligence unit works closely with all these departments on a daily basis, which allows it to find the solutions it needs to its various problems.

Essentially, it is a boutique unit, which performs missions and provides solutions that other units or tools cannot. The more the enemy improves and advances technologically, the greater the request for these solutions. "Our fighters need to know these technologies very thoroughly because they are often required to make decisions or provide solutions in the field," says Lt. Col. D.

In many cases, what isn't done in real-time, won't be done later. Because when that day comes, the enemy will have already destroyed evidence or disappeared, and even if he doesn't, it's doubtful the IDF will go to the same place twice. Therefore, the here-and-now aspect of the mission is critical.

Identify, sort, verify

8200's combat unit was established several decades ago as a reserve battalion, becoming part of the regular army in 2011. Today, too, its reservists serve in a combat capacity and partake in quite a few operations. Over the years the unit has undergone changes and adaptations, based on the changing environment and technology. The fighters, and now the female fighters as well, operate at any time of day or night, in any terrain, tailored to blend in with the local backdrop.

Although the unit belongs to 8200, it works in conjunction with all of Israel's security and intelligence agencies. In other words, any client of the mother unit, 8200, is also a client of its combat unit.

In recent years, 8200 has found it increasingly difficult to recruit new soldiers to its combat unit. Although it is first in the recruitment line ahead of all other units in the IDF (except for the pilot's course), it isn't easy finding boys with the requisite technological aptitude who also want to serve in a combat capacity in the unit. Those who choose to be fighters prefer to join special forces or combat battalions; and those who opt to serve in a technological capacity, despite meeting the physical criteria for a combat profile, would rather sit in an office writing code.

To contend with this challenge, the unit has devised several solutions. The first is exposure. While secrecy is good for business, it is bad for recruitment. The youngsters, as stated, choose units they're familiar with and have heard about. Sayeret Matkal, the IDF's top special forces unit, and Shaldag ("Kingfisher"), the Israeli Air Force commando unit, are secretive, but over the years have been the focus of countless reports, books and movies, and their operational legacy is robust and attractive to young men in search of action.

8200's combat unit is young and anonymous. To overcome this hurdle, the decision was made eight years ago to reveal its existence, on these very pages. At the time there were no female fighters in the unit, which was created as a result of the lessons learned from the Second Intifada and operations in Gaza, and the need to surmount the obstacles the enemies pose to the IDF in general and to 8200 in particular.

The increasing need for high-caliber manpower led to the second decision, made in 2017, to recruit women to the unit. This path was paved, first and foremost, by the success of women in other combat units in the IDF: Around 50% of the army's air-defense controllers and the Home Front Command's search and rescue battalions (which perform the brunt of routine operations in Judea and Samaria) are women, and this is also the case in the mixed-gender battalions that defend the borders – Caracal, Lions of the Jordan and Bardelas.

This success led to more and more women seeking service in a combat capacity. Today, the demand among female recruits for positions in the field is extremely high; the most sought after, as usual, are as instructors – in infantry, tanks, artillery and engineering – but combat positions aren't lagging far behind. Some of the women who possess the requisite technical skills lack the necessary physical profile for combat duty or the motivation (women, as a reminder, must ask to serve in a combat role, unlike men), and some of them would rather serve in more prominent units and capacities.

This amplifies the challenge facing the unit even more: Find the women with talent, sort through them, make sure they want to be combat soldiers, and then put them through a doubly arduous training process: technological and combat. Only several dozen women have completed this training since the unit opened its doors to women.

'Mature decision makers'

Even if you look closely, you won't find the role of "8200 warriors" on the list of available positions for women in the army's brochure. Nor will you find it on the Meitav website, which provides information to young men and women prior to enlistment.

Female recruits with the potential to serve as technological warriors in 8200 are tapped due to their high Kaba score (which summarizes the results from personal interviews and computer-generated psycho-technical results), tend to be graduates of science-oriented tracks in high school, and some of them reach the unit after falling from other prestigious courses, such as pilot's course and the naval academy course.

This is also why the Military Intelligence Directorate chose to participate in this article: To let female recruits know about the unit and encourage them to pursue joining its ranks – and if they are contacted, not to reject it outright.

"I view this article as a great opportunity," says Lt. Col. D. "Not that we have demand problems, but an article like this can open the minds of many women who interview for the Military Intelligence Directorate, even those who never considered combat service and want to reach 8200."

"Technological warriors," he calls them. From his perspective, "the combat aspect is the DNA of the role. Initially, their integration was a challenge, but it very quickly got on track. Their motivation to prove themselves is enormous. They are pioneers. And they have many advantages compared to men, which produces impressive operational results."

Q: Such as?

"Women fighters, at this age, are more mature decision-makers than their male counterparts. In our line of work, maturity and sound judgment are important, because the price of a mistake is dramatic."

Although the female company works separately from the male company, the unit makes sure each mission is assigned to the male or female fighters most suited skills-wise for its success. Hence the women must be prepared for any type of mission on any front, and both companies, male and female, work simultaneously, and when the need arises go on joint missions. With that, the women represent just 15% of all the fighters in the unit.

One criterion for selecting fighters for specific missions is physical. For missions involving very long marches with heavy equipment, for example, male soldiers will almost always be selected. Conversely, women are better suited for other missions.

The degree of danger, they say in the unit, is not a factor. It is, after all, a combat unit, for which risks are part of life, especially behind enemy lines. And we can assume the unit does indeed run and partake in missions across the border as part of Israel's so-called "campaign between the wars."

"On the modern battlefield, you need more than a grenade or a rifle," says Lt. Col. D. "It used to be infantry against infantry or tanks against tanks. Today, the technology comes with tremendous advantages. The female warriors will be part of any battle plan in a future war. Our only consideration will be professional, not based on gender."

In most cases, missions assigned to female fighters require a prolonged preparation period. Only a handful of missions are spur of the moment. This is because these missions are usually technologically complex and require meticulous planning.

What normally happens is the female warriors receive an operational objective, after which they dismantle the problem and begin the process of intensive study. They then devise a specific and unique solution, based on the unit's comprehensive operational and technological toolbox. These preparations can last for months and on some occasions entail mock-ups of the target.

The soldiers of 8200 are actively involved in the planning process. "In the IDF, the person who developed the Merkava tank is not the person teaching others how to shoot with it," says a senior unit officer. "Here, that's not the case. The person who developed the most advanced technology in the world also teaches us and is also involved in the process during the operation, because every intelligence-related question has a technological answer that needs developing."

"8200 comes with a problem, and we come with a solution to that problem," says Capt. A, the commander of the unit's female company. "Every mission is different than the one before it, the chances of doing a mission we've already done is close to zero. This means every soldier must stretch herself to her limits and beyond, and open a train of thought for something that is infinite. We are the operational arm of 8200. There's nothing less than the best."

Lt. Col. D adds: "Our mission diversity is immense. I don't think there's another unit in the army with such a broad operational spectrum."

'I quickly got stuck in a loop'

The female company is situated in the center of the base, near the male company. A warning sign on the border between the two areas says: "Men out of bounds, by order!" This is where they train, separate from the men, it's where they get ready for their missions, and it is from here that they embark on lengthy operations.

An open door reveals meticulously organized quarters, sheets folded neatly on bunk beds. A small, outdoor communal area with four wood benches also serves a mess hall for team meals. A colorful hammock hangs between two large Eucalyptus trees, ready for those sparing moments of rest and relaxation. In another corner of their area is a weightlifting machine.

The exposure doesn't come easy or naturally to them. "There are operations I've discussed less than this entire article," says a senior officer in the unit, as we enter the classroom.

The walls are white and blank. The whiteboard has been erased and cleaned and now shines as if never used. We are asked to leave our cell phones outside.

The female fighters walk into the room, wearing operational coveralls and carrying their personal rifles. Just based on their outward appearance, or "swag" in military vernacular, they look like solid competition for G.I. Jane. When I ask to see their training area, they chuckle: "Even when maintenance soldiers come here to fix a plumbing problem, they need to let us know in advance, so we can lock away our equipment in our lockers and make the rooms sterile."

Although the interview was defined as an important task, by order, the women fighters shift uneasily in their chairs. Capt. A (24), joined the unit two years ago from an elite infantry unit. She was born to parents who immigrated from Russia and grew up in Haifa, the middle child of three daughters. "It wasn't obvious to my dad that his daughters would enlist in the army," she says. "Because I volunteered with Magen David Adom (emergency responders) in high school, I had planned to do a paramedics course and continue on to medical school.

"A few weeks before my enlistment, inspired and encouraged by my boyfriend, who was a new immigrant who enlisted for combat service, I decided to do something different, which I could never do in civilian life. I began to investigate the world of combat duty for women, and I went to the tryouts for Caracal. My father took it very hard. But once he realized what it was all about and saw the reactions, he was behind it full throttle. He told me, 'aim high.'"

A went to officers training and returned as a team commander in an elite unit. She commanded three teams there. Two years ago, a moment before her discharge, her commander heard 8200 was looking for female warriors.

"He suggested that I go interview there, to explore the option. I was already thinking about my studies in civilian life, but I decided to go anyway. By the end of the interview, I had a twinkle in my eyes, I felt it was a privilege, that I could be part of something huge. I informed the army I was rescinding my discharge, signed on for two more years, and within a month I was here.

"I had two weeks of study time and got into the operational loop pretty quickly. The transition was sharp and difficult – from a unit that works in a very particular field, with a clear objective, to a place with so much work in so many sectors.

"During the first few days, I felt I landed on a different planet. I never thought of myself as a technological person and never got to the point where I needed to deal with such material. I tried approaching it with an open mind, and decided I would accept the challenge. Every time things got hard, I repeated the mantra that helped me keep my head above water throughout that whole time – that I'm shattering my own limits.

"With time, I realized how much I love it and how good I am at what I do. Every day, I try to seek out that new challenge. The knowledge that I conquered another peak, higher and steeper than the one before it, comes with tremendous satisfaction that fuels my drive to continue looking forward toward the next peak."

Q: On your first mission, you commanded fighters who were more technologically experienced than you. What was that like?

"I was very strict. I kept the reins in my hands, didn't let anyone else lead. I thought I would need to keep an eye on my soldiers and watch over every little thing they were doing. And in one fell swoop I realized I was wrong, big time. I saw how high their level was, I saw the unit's capabilities, and I was in shock. In that very moment it dawned on me that I had reached a place with a different standard of professionalism. I was filled with confidence that they know how to carry out their missions at the very highest level, and that they love what they are doing. I learned to let go and trust them, I understood that I don't need to be tough. I changed my approach 180 degrees. When I give someone a job to do, I can rest easy knowing it will get done. Everything is taken care of."

Q: Do you go out with them into the field?

"Most of the time, yes, it depends on the mission. I try going on missions as much as possible, to make the decisions on the ground. But sometimes it's important to let the commanders under me lead in the field, while I'm in the command center or someplace else.

"I'm also tested in times of routine. Based on how I manage our routine, the unit can plan for the next mission. And the next mission can start at any time."

Q: Is there a difference between the command structure you were familiar with and your current position?

"Here, the command is at eye level, kind of like a family. Coffee every morning, and if possible, in the evening. It's different from what's accepted and goes on in the other units I know. I have a very close relationship with my soldiers, I respect them and learn from them."

Her boyfriend was recently discharged and has begun his university studies. "We've been together seven years; we're very used to only seeing one another on weekends, because he was a fighter, too. When there's an operation happening, it's harder to be in touch, because there isn't always a phone around or it can't be used for two weeks. But he understands it."

She is supposed to finish her service this summer, but the unit is pressing her to stay, offering her challenging positions. "I'm at a crossroads. Academics and civilian life are enticing to me. My partner and parents are pushing me to stay in the unit, but support any decision I make. I'm still undecided."

'The tool we have is the team'

None of the female fighters in the unit knew exactly what the role entailed, not even during the long and difficult training process, which spanned more than a year. They weren't even told where the finish line was, as a means of enforcing their mindset to be primed and ready for any scenario, at any time. They all signed and committed, like every female combat soldier in the IDF, to serving the same amount of time as their male comrades -- two years and eight months, including reserve duty in the future. They are all required to maintain utmost secrecy, even from family and friends, including a prohibition on discussing their job on social media or uploading photos related in any way to their military service.

2nd Lt. Y, the female company's chief training instructor and a graduate of the unit's trailblazing first class of female warriors, says: "Today when I look at my accomplishments as a fighter, commander and as chief training officer, I can see that the perception of the female fighters has changed in the minds of the unit's commanders. I believe there are no doubts about our capabilities."

Q: Before going on a mission, is there fear?

"Always. There's a giant responsibility on your shoulders. Coping with the fear is part of what makes it interesting. In training, we push the female and male soldiers to the brink of their abilities, and it helps, but I'll never be able to simulate operational fear in a classroom. The tool we have is the team. The sisterhood of warriors. The solution to fear is the knowledge that the fighter alongside me will be there for me."

'Friends for life'

"The word 'warrior' was what drew me in, but I didn't understand the actual meaning," says 2nd Lt. A (22), from central Israel. "In hindsight, it encompasses far more challenges than what I imagined."

Sgt. R (20), from northern Israel, on the other hand, admits she never dreamed of being a fighter. "I was invited to the screenings and was accepted, but I had no idea what was waiting for me. On the first day of basic training, I was in shock. I didn't understand what was going on, I never could have imagined the level of physical difficulty."

Q: And if you would have known?

"I'm not sure I would have gotten here," she says with a smile.

Sgt. A is another fighter in the unit. "In basic training, they taught us to work with one another," she says. "You need to learn to deal with everyone and read everyone's facial expressions -- what she's feeling, does she need help, would she rather be alone. When she's happy or sad. Who is sensitive to cold and needs some help in that regard. To know everything about one another.

"We didn't start out as best friends. But the more you go through together, the more you learn to accept one another in the most difficult moments. We have all learned a lot about one another; we were all there for each other's most extreme moments, and we took care of one another as sisters. Contending with tough situations helps us know one another better and know exactly what each of us needs even before she asks. This creates the type of friendship that doesn't exist everywhere. It's a friendship for life.

"I won't lie, in training there can be tension and competitiveness, but it's healthy competition. There's no place for it on a mission."

For Sgt. A, the technological challenge was the biggest hurdle. "They showed us the unit's technological capabilities and it looked like something from a science fiction movie, in Chinese. I studied on the scientific track in high school, but the knowledge I accumulated was like nothing I saw there. It didn't break me, but I did have to work hard to succeed. It was also a challenge for the other girls, and we were simply there for one another."

Capt. A: "I'm already done with my mandatory service and some of the fighters who were with me have already been discharged. I keep in touch with many of them. We have shared experiences we'll never forget; there are things only they know about me. Because we were in such a classified and operational unit, there have been things I could only talk about with them, and it creates a different level of intimacy than with friends from the outside.

"From the beginning of training we're together 24/7; eat, sleep, train, study together. It's a substantial challenge, but also forges a connection that cannot be explained with words. The intensity of the training we share makes it possible to then trust the soldier next to you on a dangerous operation."

'I was focused on the target'

The unit's commanders stress that aside from certain differences in the weight they carry on their backs, the female warriors are held to the same standards as their male counterparts. Their training culminates in a long and grueling march, just like the men, after which, at daybreak, they reach a final mountain summit where they are welcomed by all the unit's soldiers and the commander of 8200 himself.

Last year, because of the coronavirus, the traditional induction ceremony didn't take place and the female fighters instead took part in more intimate initiations. "We waited for eight months to receive our berets. We had an intimate ceremony, and we were actually happy about it because we wanted to be there by ourselves, together," says Sgt. A.

"We marched throughout a cold night, hearing only one another's footsteps; we helped whoever needed it. We felt a belonging to the unit and to one another. We didn't know how many kilometers we walked. We hiked through a thick fog, and we knew that no matter what, we would get through it together."

Q: When did you understand the essence of the job?

Sgt. A: "Already on the first day in the unit. We went straight into a mission, full steam. It was a tough day, a tough mission. Stressful. That's when the shoe dropped, suddenly everything came together like a puzzle. My task was to be responsible for all the technological equipment. It was a tremendous responsibility, and it also made me proud to have such an assignment. Everyone's eyes were on me, and I didn't know what would come of it. I did what I was taught to do."

Q: Were you scared?

"No. I felt a great sense of responsibility and excitement. I was focused on the target."

'Only those who need to know'

Q: What does a regular day look like for you?

Sgt. A: "We start the day together, with a discussion about the day ahead. Most of the day is devoted to maintaining operational readiness and preparing for action, if there is any. We try very hard to end the day with a meal together."

Sgt. R: "We also study and learn a lot of new things. Ultimately, the base is our home. We cook here, train, do exercises, krav maga (Israeli martial arts). We don't feel like we're in central Israel. We're in the field. The transition from routine to a mission can happen at any moment. Ultimately, we wake up in the morning to be ready for the next operation."

2nd Lt. A: "Sometimes I think a day will be routine, and then I'm told that in a few hours we need to be on a mission in one of the IDF's core sectors. This can be quite complex from a command point of view; how to foster a sense of certainty among the troops in uncertain conditions."

Sgt. A: "The most significant challenge is that it's impossible to prepare for tomorrow because we don't really know what tomorrow will look like. We can only live in the moment."

Q: Is there camaraderie with the male soldiers?

Sgt. A: "Their track is different from ours, and there's no time for socializing. We are with one another into the night. Even on weekends, when we're at home. On Fridays, we sleep a ton. On Saturdays, we meet up."

Q: What's the feeling after a mission is completed?

Sgt. R: Satisfaction that cannot be described with words, but we make sure not to fall into complacency. We examine what went right and what went less right. They can send us on another mission right away."

2nd Lt. A: Even if a mission is successful, we don't slip into depression; we learn the lessons for the next time."

Q: Don't you find it hard to keep everything you do a secret from friends and family?

"At the beginning, the lack of information was hard for my parents," says Sgt. R. "When I would come home from a mission, they really couldn't understand why I couldn't tell them what I'd been doing for the past week. Over time they started to accept it, now they only ask 'how was your week,' and I tell them it was busy and that I'm tired. They understood they couldn't pull any information from me."

2nd Lt. A: "My boyfriend is also an officer. It's funny, we speak in general in terms about the army, stuff like physical fitness training and that sort of thing. We don't discuss my operational activities or his."

2nd Lt. Y: Because my family doesn't know what we do, it means they tie every little thing that appears in the papers to me, and I smile politely. My personal feeling is a mix of pride in the things I've done, and a tiny twinge in my heart that it's not something I can share with them. Thankfully, the people in the unit are a family in and of themselves, and I can talk about everything we're allowed to with them."

2nd Lt. A: "Sometimes we are compartmentalized even from one another."

Sgt. A: "There are operations that only some of the fighters partake in, and the others are compartmentalized. Everyone helps them prepare for the mission, without knowing what they're going to do and when. We've learned to elegantly evade questions."

Capt. A: "Every mission is extremely sensitive. We make sure that only those who need to know, know the secret. Even between us."

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Azka Daulia is one of few Muslim Indonesians who openly support Israel. Her story began the day after Israel signed a peace deal with the United Arab Emirates and Bahrain, and as it turned out, Sept. 15, 2020, was to be a day she will never forget.  

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"The ceremony was not broadcast on [Indonesian] television," Daulia said in an interview with Israel Hayom. "Whosever job it is to determine what gets broadcast did not show the public the wonderful Israeli news.

"The ceremony took place at 11 p.m. Indonesian time, and I was already asleep. But the next morning I went to the Israeli Foreign Ministry's Facebook page and watched the recording of the ceremony, heard Prime Minister Netanyahu talk about King David, and I said to myself, 'This is a nation that believes in God, and I think it's something positive to bring to people.' I was so excited, I cried.

"I told my father about the ceremony, and he said it was wonderful news. Many Muslim Indonesians love Israel, and I wanted people to see for themselves and enjoy the peace and the hope, how inspiring it is. I decided to share the recording of the ceremony on my Facebook and Instagram. I wrote to my Indonesian friends that I didn't film or edit the video, and I just wanted them to see the ceremony, that they should see the hope for peace."

Daulia added to her post an appeal addressed to Indonesian President Joko Widodo "in the hope that Indonesia will follow in the footsteps of these countries [UAE and Bahrain] and will establish diplomatic relations with Israel too.

"I was raised as a Muslim but have always been curious about Judaism," she said. "My grandfather is a devout Muslim. He is 101 years old and he has never spoken about Judaism. I have always felt uncomfortable asking him about it. But when I was a child, my father told me that if I wanted to know more about [the Prophet] Muhammad, then I should read the Torah. Also, my brother has a son who he named from the Torah, Eliezer."

Indonesia has the world's largest Muslim population. It gained its independence in 1945, previously having been under the Netherlands' rule. It was not until 1949 that the Dutch recognized Indonesia's sovereignty following an armed and diplomatic conflict between the two.

Indonesia held its first elections in 1999 when a constitution was enacted. The country is part of The Non-Aligned Movement, members of which do not formally align with or against any major power bloc, but Indonesia is known for supporting the Palestinian quest for statehood. There has been an increase in the number of extremist Islamic groups in the country in recent years, but most of its inhabitants are of moderate views.

There were attempts to establish diplomatic relations between Indonesia and Israel in the mid-1950s, but it failed due to pressure from other Arab countries. The following decade saw reports of Israeli arms sales to Indonesia, as well as clandestine negotiations to establish trade relations. Formally, entry restrictions for Israelis were lifted in 2018, and vice versa, but Israel's travel warning to the region remains in place. 

There are only a few Jews in Indonesia, some of whom maintain a secret synagogue in the city of Mendo in the country's east.  

This makes Daulia's post even more courageous. As expected, it sparked raging controversy in Indonesia and worldwide and received hundreds of shares and comments, including some harsh replies from Indonesians. 

"Israel is Jews, my sister," someone commented. "It does not matter if the enemy is big or small; it is still an enemy. This is not what the Prophet Muhammad wanted. We need to build our own economy and army, and the laws of Islam will rule the Dome [of the Rock]."

Another person wrote, "Open your eyes, my sister, to how many Palestinian Muslims are being persecuted by Israel!" 

Daulia's Facebook status read that she "has stepped up to fight for the diplomatic relations between Indonesia and Israel." Next to the caption are the flags of Israel and Indonesia with a red heart connecting the two. 

"I have always dreamed of having a connection to Israel," she says. "It stems from the education I received at home and at school. After the Abraham Accords, I realized I needed to make my personal aspirations public. I realized that in the new reality, it is no longer a dream. And I have to fight for it."

"I show my support for Israel because I want to spark a dialogue [among Indonesians]. Let them discuss, argue, take acting. I used a picture of a glass box in one of my posts: everyone can see what's inside, but people do not look inside the transparent box. Inside it has information about Israel, and therefore I open the box, and magically the truth comes out, and everyone can see it and be inspired to receive hope for our country to enrich Indonesia with knowledge and technology. 

"People do not know the facts, and the important thing is how do we educate them to remain objective, question the validity of facts. It is important that they be in a constant search for truth."

Daulia's post continues to send shockwaves across Indonesia. 

"Miss Azka's hopes for the chosen people are good and very optimistic. Cooperation with Israel will certainly benefit Indonesia. The question is whether such hope is acceptable in our [Indonesian] community. Even more, we need to look into what kind of [wrongful] acts Israel committed when it was conquering the Promised Land", one person wrote. 

Q: What did you answer them?

"That my dream is for Indonesia to prosper even more. That unity, love, and affection among Indonesian people should increase. That we should have more good things. I wrote that this could be anyone's dream. I am sure that there are many good things Indonesia can do with Israel to achieve this dream.

Q: Isn't that perhaps a little bit naive?

"Obviously, it's not going to be easy. I have 4,000 Facebook friends, and very few dare to support me openly. I'm not saying that the Palestinian debate should be suppressed. On the contrary, it should be conducted, but in a dignified manner, based on facts. 

"Someone commented on my post saying that Israel established its settlements in direct violation of international law. I responded that I see Israel as a country that has always belonged to the Jews. It's a known fact that Jews have had a presence in Israel for all of history and that it is not a Palestinian country. I recommended that person some knowledgeable sources to learn more about the subject," Daulia explained.

"Another person asked me if I wasn't afraid to be considered a Zionist. I pointed out that there are so many things we can learn from Israel that can benefit the Indonesian people, that, in fact, I can't wait for people to say that I am a Zionist."

Q: Aren't you scared that others will try to silence you?

"No, I'm not. What I am scared of is foolishness, ignorance, and the coronavirus. I have the right to speak my mind. 

Daulia is the fifth of seven children. Her parents chose her name, Daulia, after the beautiful Indonesian Dahlia flower.  

Her parents, Muhammad Nordin and Aka Mastikawati – most Indonesians do not have last names –  are owners of an Indonesian frozen fruit business and a small art and gift gallery in Jakarta. Her father volunteers as an educator on the board of directors of the El Zeitoun boarding school located on Java island that Daulia herself studied in. Since the beginning of the outbreak, he spends all his time at the school and rarely returns home. 

"The school has a vision. Not an Islamic, Christian, Jewish, or any other religious one, but a vision of education, culture, tolerance, and peace. I worked as a teacher in that school for two years before I started university."

The boarding school is attended by 2,500 students, girls and boys, from all provinces and islands in Indonesia, Singapore, Malaysia, and South Africa. 

"The school choir sings songs in Hebrew which the school principal taught them because they contain messages of peace. At the Muslim New Year celebration, one of the biggest events of the school year, we also sing Jewish songs like Hineh Ma Tov and Hava Nagila. 

Daulia's connection to Israel began two years ago when she applied to study for a master's degree in architecture at the Technion – Israel Institute of Technology, an institution Daulia considers "the best in the world." Daulia traveled to Singapore to send in her application as Indonesia bans all Israeli websites. 

"Unfortunately, my application was denied. I was told that the school could not accept me as there were no diplomatic ties between Israel and Indonesia," she said.

On the last day of her trip to Singapore, Daulia went to pray at the local Chabad house and stayed for Shabbat dinner. "The rabbi approached our table, acquired who I was, and introduced me to his wife. I told them I wanted to learn Hebrew, and they recommended an online course. I exchanged emails with an Israeli guy, and we corresponded for a year. During that time, I studied Hebrew online at the Rosen School of Hebrew. 

At the same time, Daulia began following the Facebook page of the Israeli Foreign Ministry and the page of pro-Israel advocate Hananya Naftali. Naftali served in the Armored Corps during 2014's Operation Protective Edge and began to speak out on Israel's behalf after his release from the military. 

"It is very exciting to see an Indonesian Muslim woman use social media to promote peace and friendship between our peoples," Naftali told Israel Hayom. "Peace brings with itself peace, and love leads to even more peace. Indonesia needs more pioneers like Daulia to promote peace with Israel, something that will benefit both Israelis and Indonesians."

Q: How has the coronavirus affected Indonesia? 

"Some 18,000 people have died from the virus since the outbreak of the pandemic. A mass grave was built in East Jakarta for the victims. When I traveled outside the city after the first lockdown, I saw the place. I cried bitterly. For now, I stay at home and follow all the guidelines. 

"Many people struggle, especially the elderly and the poor, those who do not have a job and money to buy food. The president has prepared a plan to help the poor financially, but it is not enough. My mother decided to stop driving her car and use public transportation instead to provide a livelihood for the drivers."

Q: Why is the normalization of ties between Israel and Indonesia important for you? 

"It is important for my country. Israel does not really need Indonesia, but Indonesia needs Israel. You have a lot of intelligent people, modern technology, high-tech, sustainable energy. We have a lot in common, and we can learn a lot from you in order to promote our country."

"I only have 4,000 friends on Facebook, but the school I attended, which shares the same values I do, has thousands of students from all over Indonesia. I believe that the message will slowly seep in and reach everyone."

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"Every time the Germans raided the village, the partisans would ring the church bells and send one of the local kids to take us to a cave in the mountains. The kids would cover the mouth of the cave with branches so that we wouldn't be discovered. I don't remember it as being traumatic. I don't remember being afraid. I only remember the piece of sky that I could see between the branches," she says.

It is 2 p.m. in Kryoneri, a small village in Corinthia, Greece. Today, 74 years after Greece was liberated from the Nazis, two people are being honored posthumously with the title of Righteous Among the Nations, reserved for non-Jews who helped rescue Jews in World War II.

One of them is Father Nikolaos Athanasoulis, who saved the lives of Ricky Yaakobi and her family. The other is Athanasios Dimopoulos, who hid the family in his home. The honor was being accepted on their behalf by nine of their descendants.

This small, isolated town, known as Mergeni during the war, seems not to have changed a bit over the years. It has the same small houses, surrounded by flowers, the same narrow alleyways overlooking the fields and the mountains, greenhouses, a tavern and one grocery store that is actually closed most of the day. The spring that provided all the water the residents needed during the war still flows through the center of town. It is smaller now that the homes have indoor plumbing, but every now and then someone still walks up to fill up a bottle for the road.

The residents earn their living mainly from vineyards and olive groves, making raisins and olive oil, just as they did then. Today, they are gathered in a small square next to the local culture center, wearing their Sunday best. They are greeted by Greek and Israeli flags waving side by side. People from nearby villages are also arriving, and the square gradually fills with people – Ricky Yaakobi's now elderly classmates from their makeshift wartime schoolhouse gather alongside youngsters who heard the moving story from their parents.

There are also dignitaries: Israeli Ambassador to Greece Irit Ben-Abba, German Ambassador to Greece Jens Plötner, the district president, the local chief of police, the local priest. They all came to meet the little girl whose family was saved here, and who, after the war, migrated to Israel and built a kibbutz and had 10 children of her own.

Ricky was born in Athens to the Kamchi family. In 1943, when she was 6, the Germans seized the area from the Italians and her life turned upside down in an instant. Until then, she had been a spoiled child in a wealthy household with a servant who removed her father's shoes for him when he returned home from work each day. Suddenly, she had to flee with her family in a horse-drawn carriage to a village without electricity or running water. They had to hide there until the end of the war, living a modest life under assumed identities and depending on the kindness of locals for survival.

Yaakobi remembers vignettes from that time.

The first memory: "It's the era of Italian rule, before the German occupation. There was famine in Athens, and my mother, who was newly pregnant, went to get a pasta maker from a neighbor. Because of the weight of the machine, she fell down the stairs and was taken to a hospital. There she suffered a miscarriage without any anesthesia, because all the medication was sent to the frontlines. It was a miracle for the family because had a baby been born, they never would have been able to hide him in the cave without being caught."

The second memory: "My brother, mother and I were getting ready to go on vacation to a resort in November 1943, just as we did every year. My father would be joining us on the weekend. Then, suddenly, I was told that we were going to a village. A horse took us to the village on an unpaved, steep path. We traveled for hours. To this day, I don't understand how the horse managed to climb that incline."

The third memory: "We arrived at a small house in the village at 2 a.m. My brother, Yechiel, who was two years older than me, my parents Avraham and Shulamit, Uncle Rephael and my grandparents, Yechiel and Rebecca, and me. The people inside had never met us. They opened the door and let us all into their small home and gave us soup as if it were the most natural thing in the world."

Ricky has been retelling these memories for years. At first, she told her own children the stories of the kind people who saved her family. When the children grew up, her grandchildren started inviting her to their schools to tell her story to their classes. To this day she earnestly believes that it is her duty to tell the story of the courageous people in that village and relay everything she had learned from them.

Now she is here, with her 10 children, 30 of her grandchildren, and other relatives. Rina Geva, 40, her ninth child, says that when she was young she did not even realize that her mother was a Holocaust survivor.

"We knew that she fled, we heard the stories and knew all the details, but they were all adventure stories with a happy ending. It was only eight years ago that I finally understood," Geva says.

"I was studying drama therapy at the time. The girls in the class started talking about breastfeeding. I said that when I breastfed my children I always thought about what I would have done in the Holocaust, how I would have nursed my children. I talked about it as a kind of universal experience. I was sure that all nursing mothers think about where they would hide their baby if a war breaks out and how they would calm them if they were to cry in the hiding place.

"All the eyes in that room went wide. It became totally silent. Then the instructor said to me, 'Oh, you're second generation [Holocaust survivor].' And I argued with her. I said, ' I'm not.' My mother? Everything was fine with her. She always said she didn't suffer, that she didn't experience any trauma.

"That was the first time I realized that I was, in fact, a second-generation survivor. I understood the many indicators that reflect my being a second-generation survivor. I suddenly understood why it was absolutely forbidden to indulge in our home. Indulgence was a curse. Everyone always had to work. Hard. I understood that my mother, who grew up in an indulgent household as a child, suddenly lost everything in the war. That's why it was forbidden. I ultimately did my master's thesis on elderly Holocaust survivors. It was a kind of closure for me."

Dimitris Dimopoulos, 82, and his brother Georgios, 88, were children when their parents evacuated them from their treehouse to make room for the Kamchi family. They moved into a small adjacent room. Dimitris still lives in that home to this day. Today, the two brothers are accepting the Righteous Among the Nations honor on behalf of their father.

"I would take Ricky and her family back to the cave when the Germans came," Georgios recalls. "They would stay in the cave for a day or two, until it was safe, and then a kid would be sent to the cave to tell them that it was safe to return to the village."

Ricky converses with him in Greek. She tells him how one night, when she was very sick, her mother refused to take her to the cave.

"She insisted on staying at home with me. That night, the Germans looked for weapons that the partisans had hidden in the village. They burned down the barn that was next to the house. I remember standing at the window and watching the barn burn."

"Right," Dimitris confirms. "Your mother and my grandmother ran with jugs and pots to the spring and brought back water until they managed to put out the fire. Half the barn burned down. If they had known that you were Jewish, they would have burned down the whole house. Incidentally, we remodeled the house exactly in the way that it was."

Ricky: "I also remember that a German man entered the house and asked my mother what she was doing there. He recognized that she wasn't a villager. She told him that I was sick. He looked at me, and then he touched my forehead. I could see in his eyes that he didn't believe her. That he knew who we really were. But he signaled to his friend that there was nothing there, and they left. Even in hell, there was a German with a good soul. He didn't turn us in."

Avi Yaakobi, Ricky's eldest son, 57, wrote a book about the family with his brother Ido six years ago. In the book, they included several of their mother's stories.

"As kids, we mainly heard romantic stories. It is only now, that we're here and meeting these people face to face, that I can begin to understand the risk that they took. I'm trying to imagine my grandmother living here with the mothers of the women around here. When I meet them, it surprises me to learn how important our story is to them. It is a part of them no less than it is a part of us."

Ricky strolls around the village with her family. When they arrive at the church, she recalls the difficult times that are etched into her memory.

"On the Sunday after we arrived, my father went to church because our papers said we were Christian. The priest, Father Nikolaos Athanasoulis, asked him to leave.

"My father walked out but remained behind the door. He heard the priest tell the congregants, 'Everyone knows that a family from Athens has come to the village. They say they are Christian but we all know they aren't. The Germans will come and they will offer you a sack of sugar or flour to turn this family in. I am warning you that if anyone talks about them, I will burn down their house. There will be no snitches in my village.'"

The current priest is hearing this story for the first time, and it visibly moves him.

"His spirit remains in the village to this day," he says. "He hugged every stranger who arrived. We even gave the Albanians food and clothes and a place to sleep."

Besides being the town priest, Athanasoulis was also the teacher. Ricky remembers how he would clear out the pews after Sunday services and replace them with small chairs so he could teach the multi-aged group once the partisans took over the village school. She and her brother joined the makeshift class. Ricky sat with the younger children in the first row and Yechiel sat a little behind her. The priest adjusted the lessons to cater to the needs of each child's age and level.

"One day, after school, the priest left and it was just us, the children. Suddenly everyone surrounded my brother Yechiel, took a glass bottle and threatened him, 'We'll kill you just like you killed Jesus.'

"I stood there, frozen. I didn't know what to do. One kid ran out to the priest and told him what was happening. The priest came in and put the kids who threatened my brother on one side of the room and the kid who went to get him on the other side. 'These are the bad kids,' he said, 'and this is the good kid.' He punished the bad kids and sent them to the basement. His message was clear and sharp. Everyone understood.

"Every man is born with some bad in his heart. I think that God did that so that we would learn that we are capable of overcoming the bad part. The people here in the village taught me, when I was 6, that it is possible to overcome the bad part and prevail."

Father Athanasoulis had 10 children too. His youngest daughter, now 97, could not make it to the ceremony, but his grandchildren are there to accept the award on his behalf. One is Aliki Athanasoulis, 79. She approaches Ricky and hugs her.

"We were true friends," she says with great emotion.

"I remember playing together. My grandfather used to say to us, 'You need to protect this family.' You were a part of our family.

"One day your brother Yechiel was sick when they smuggled you to the cave. My mother told your mother to leave him with us, because my father was also sick. They laid in bed together and told me to call Yechiel 'my brother.' When the Germans came, they asked my mother who the child was and she said, 'My son.' Yechiel continued to call her, 'Mama, mama,' for a long time after that."

Aliki opens her purse and takes out a few mementos she had kept from Ricky's parents.

"Several years ago, I approached the Israeli Embassy in Athens because I wanted to find you. But they told me that there are a lot of Kamchi families in Israel and that they wouldn't be able to locate you."

Yechiel Kamchi died two years ago. He did not live to see this joyous day. His daughter, Meital Kamchi-Froman, 42, did not know her father's stories.

"He was the smartest man I have ever met. He understood people. He was very intellectual, always knew the right thing to do and how to help. He never thought of himself as someone who endured the Holocaust. Though he never spent any money on himself and would never throw out a cucumber, even after it rotted.

"He viewed Ricky's memories as folk tales. He thought that she was imagining. He didn't believe that what had happened in Greece had shaped his reality. But when I hear the stories, and realize how real it actually is, it explains the sense of duty that always coursed through his veins. He was an Israeli spy, and he worked in a wide range of positions. To this day we can't talk about the things he did. In the 1960s, he was sent on missions in Greece. I assume that his familiarity with the culture and the language helped him do his work."

Kristos Pangos, 88, joins the conversation. As a child, he lived with his parents in the apartment above the Kamchi family.

"When you went to the cave, we would hide your uncle, Rephael. He had a limp and couldn't walk all the way to the cave."

Ricky is visibly moved by this story. She knew that Rephael, her father's brother, who had suffered a leg injury from a street car before the war, made a notch in his walking cane every time Ricky and the family hid in the cave during a German raid. That year, Rephael made 17 notches in his cane.

Gaby Kamchi, 69, Rephael's son, was born after the war. He heard from his father stories laced with fear and terror at the thought of being caught. Now, he is trying to gather more details about the families that hosted his father during these difficult times.

Nikov Spiros, 85, another neighbor who lived on the same street, tells him how his father used to visit them because they had an English typewriter, and Raphael used it to write letters. To whom? That remains a mystery.

Ricky is warmly embraced by the chairman of a local environmental group. He was born after the war, but when the Yaakobi family approached him, he started asking about them among his parents and the older neighbors at the café.

"Everyone remembered the family," he says. "I was surprised, no one ever told us that story before. I think that it is very important to tell the story to the younger generation, to teach them to be proud of what their parents had done and to encourage them to follow the same path."

Today, anyone who wants to visit the cave needs get through thick shrubbery. Before the ceremony, the environmental group made sure to clear the path so that a delegation could revisit the cave. They plan to bring young volunteers to the area to build a commemorative site with paths, benches and signs leading up to the cave "so that the story will be told every day and never forgotten."

Surrounded by family and local schoolchildren, Ricky makes her way to the cave. There, in speaking in Hebrew and Greek, she tells a story. "One day, my father took my brother and me to a distant place. He put a white sheet over his head and explained Yom Kippur to us. Then he prayed. It was important to him that we remember this day, though he probably didn't know for sure that it was that day. He probably just decided that this day was Yom Kippur. Sort of."

"Finally he told us 'children, when the war ends, we are going to Eretz Israel.' He always wanted to make aliyah to Israel, but during our time in that village, he understood that it was really imperative."

"When the war ended, on our way back to Athens, my father stopped at the Corinth Canal. He tore up our forged documents and said 'you will never live under a false identity again.' He vowed that he would do everything he could so that we would go to Eretz Israel as quickly as possible."

"Our house in Athens had been taken over by refugees. We moved into my grandmother's apartment, my mother's mother, who had hidden in a cellar in Athens. My father nagged the British Embassy constantly for us to get our immigration certificates. He was there every week. They kept telling him that there were no visas."

"Until one day, in 1945, the Jewish Agency rounded up 200 orphan children aged 4 to 14 to take them to Israel. They needed someone to accompany them on the ship, and no one in the agency spoke any Greek. They remembered that nag, Kamchi, and asked him if he would be willing to do it. He said of course, but only with the family."

"When we got to Eretz Israel, my parents went to the immigrants' home and Yechiel and I went with the orphans, who were distributed to the kibbutzim. We ended up in Ein Vered."

Ricky concludes her story with a message to Israelis. "If one of my children or grandchildren were to emigrate from Israel, I wouldn't be able to take it. We have a wonderful country, even if there is still a lot of work to do. If you think things need fixing, get up and fix them. You, young people."

Uri, Ricky's 11-year-old grandson, plays Hatikva on the trumpet. The sounds echo throughout the entire valley.

It's 3 p.m. The square is filled with hundreds of guests. The guests are ushered into the cultural center and it, too, fills up quickly. The curious guests forced to remain outside the hall listen to the ceremony on loudspeakers placed outside. Everyone huddles at the windows to get a peek inside.

Angaliki Athanasoulis, another of the priest's grandchildren, sings the Ballad of Mauthausen in Greek and there isn't a dry eye in the crowd. The Israeli ambassador presents the award to the descendants of the two honorees and it is clear to all in attendance that they are representing an entire village of kind, courageous people.

Ricky takes the stage, her emotions apparent. She tells the audience again of the bravery that the honorees displayed. She says they didn't only give her life, they also shaped her life. She embraces the descendants of the people who saved her, and they, in turn, give her photos.

"If your parents hadn't done what they did, I wouldn't have ten children and 40 grandchildren," she says. "There would be no Ricky."

Before returning to Israel, the Yaakobi family stops at the priest's grave in the outskirts of the village. Ricky calls her grandchildren over to lay flowers on the gravestone of the man to whom they owe their very existence. Ricky's husband says "I want to thank you, Father Athanasoulis, for doing what you did, at great risk not only to yourself but to your family and perhaps to the entire village. You risked everything you had. I wish I could be sure that I would do the same if I were in your position."

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