A week after the October 7 attack, I received permission to enter Kibbutz Be’eri. I had been invited by friends in the community to document Be’eri's story for the world.
Before visiting Be’eri itself, I went to the Dead Sea hotel where the evacuated residents were staying and found a scene of absolute chaos.
Every day, a funeral procession left from that place, yet amid the tragedy, I witnessed an incredible community spirit, a resilience that was immediately apparent in the faces of Be’eri’s people.
A few days later, I arrived at the kibbutz. I’m not even sure if I was truly taking the photos that first day—perhaps it was the adrenaline capturing those images. Everywhere I looked, there was devastation: shattered cars, total destruction. You take pictures because it’s your duty, then go home, open your computer and see that you’ve captured not just wreckage, but an entire community’s story.
I found myself returning to the kibbutz again and again. On each visit, I documented what remained: grenade fragments in the bomb shelters, homes destroyed by explosives, family photo albums scattered among the rubble.
Last week, I returned once more, seeking another piece of the puzzle that is October 7. I discovered that many residents had come back. The dining hall was open, the fields were being planted and the printing press was once again running at full speed.
At dawn, I set out eagerly to see Be’eri’s rebirth. My first stop was at Ayuna – A Simple Story in Wood, a carpentry shop founded by the late designer Yonat Or, who was killed in the attack. Her memory is kept alive by Doron, Moti, Itzik and Shalev, who now run the workshop, her photo watching over them as they work.
From there, I went to the kibbutz dairy. Dror Or, the dairy manager and Yonat’s husband, was also killed that day, but his legacy lives on.
I met Tom, preparing yet another delivery of cheese to nearby stores, with shelves full of products that Dror would have been proud to see.
I then visited the printing press, nearly empty when I had first come to Be’eri after the attack, staffed by only 30 people. Today, the machines hum, and the stockrooms are filled with paper. "We’re here, stronger than ever," is the message that resonates.
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Be'eri printing house employee wearing a shirt that reads, 'you need more than a rocket to stop us'
(Photo: Micha Brikman)
But what moved me the most were the fields. The furrows are plowed once again, and potatoes are being planted.
Gal Godard, the son of Ayelet and Manny Godard—both killed in the attack—has returned to work the land of Be’eri. His mother was laid to rest in the Be’eri cemetery, while his father remains a captive of Hamas.
I had first met Gal in October, by his parents' home, searching for traces of what had happened to them. Now, seeing him plant a vast field of potatoes, I felt there was no greater expression of strength and optimism.
Finally, before leaving, I stopped for lunch in the dining hall that, in the days after October 7, was silent and abandoned. Today, the clatter and lively noise leave no room for doubt: Be’eri is rebuilding.
Thanks to the incredible people of Be’eri, I am able to share their stories of resilience time after time. True recovery, however, will only come when all of Be’eri’s captives are returned home.
These photos will be part of an exhibition opening on November 6 at Beit HaMachilot in Jaffa, marking the first event held by the Be’eri printing press for its clients since October 7.
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