On October 7, Keren Meir was serving as an operations sergeant in the war room at the military base at Kissufim. In an extraordinary, shocking, and detailed testimony in an Instagram post, she describes the surprise Hamas terror attack through the eyes of someone who was there, as she kept operating with incredible courage and composure.
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Read the full testimony:
Friday night shift. I’ve been in the war room since ten o’clock. At six in the morning, I took a photo of Kissufim’s lovely, serene sunrise (with a rather strange feeling in my stomach). Back to the war room. Within five minutes, that same sky is filled with barrages of rockets as I’ve never seen over the Gaza envelope. Over the radio, I report that they’re firing at us. Everyone rushes to the war room, over the radio, the look-out observers report that the fence has been breached. The first thing I thought of was the settlements and I ran to the phone and sent a message to the military security coordinators group to not leave the bomb shelters, that there was a terrorist infiltration.
I realize that the fence was breached and I saw thousands of terrorists advancing into the country – on motorbikes, tractors, cars, by air – by every means possible. I know I’m 1.2 miles from the border and put that out of my mind. The cameras were shut down, they shot them all out. All the operations sergeants and look-out observers that were in residential buildings or shelters are now in the damned (reinforced) war room, and I make sure they’re all in one piece. The terrorists are at the outpost gate. We still had no way of knowing how many. 80? 100? 200?
I looked up and saw a group of look-out observers whom I dearly love crying and hiding so as to not get shot. And I’m praying. By the time the cameras were disabled, they couldn’t do anything. But that’ll change…
It’s the weekend, and it’s a holiday, so we were short on personnel. I realized defending the outpost was going to be hard. I clearly needed to first send forces to the civilians. This is also the answer I get from the brigade. I kept the news to myself to not create panic. We were very few against many. The war room was filling up with the wounded from the military base. These were my friends. The floor turned red, and the troops were screaming in pain.
I suppress it all, trying to be glad that the brilliant combat medic is in the war room and is treating the wounded. The rest of the operations sergeants and look-out observers started helping the wounded in the war room, learning first aid and tourniquet bandaging as they go. They were using shirts, and pants. Any sleeve we could find was improvised into bandaging equipment. The place I was standing at in the war room wasn't reinforced. The girls thank me for carrying on. They gave me strength and did everything the doctors told them to.
I assessed the situation. I tried to understand which force was getting to which settlement, screaming over the phone where’s the Air Force? Where is everyone? All of a sudden, a huge miracle occurred. A single camera comes up – the camera protecting Kissufim. I instantly had an idea – I asked the lookout observer to pin a location so we could put out a UAV on the terrorists on their way to the outposts and the kibbutz.
Hadar, the second operations sergeant, joined me and we directed the UAVs at the terrorists on their way to us and innocent civilians. We worked together, as we had more unimaginable phone conversations. People pleading for help, soldiers stuck with no ammunition, food or water, operations sergeants whom I swear I’m sending forces to and that I haven’t forgotten about, my look-out observer friend who’s stuck in a room in a residential building that isn’t reinforced - as the terrorists are shooting all around her, a good friend telling me that everyone around him is either dead or wounded and if they’re not rescued now, there’ll be no one left alive. I try sending forces everywhere, and I see I’m running out of men.
In the war room, a few fighters have protected the door. We left the main door open to allow the wounded to be brought in. I kept hearing the names of friends who were murdered. I couldn't hold back the tears. This was the first time I allowed myself any emotion. The brigade communications officer took my hand and refocused me, telling me that I’ve been functioning brilliantly until now and that I have to carry on, that he's here, with me, to help me. That it’ll be okay. I pulled myself together because I knew I had no choice. I heard, by chance, what had happened at Nahal Oz, the adjacent outpost. I kept it to myself because, again, I couldn't be causing any more panic.
Terrorists in IDF military base
Once an hour, I also had to calm down my father and tell him that everything was okay to stop him from physically showing up by car himself from Ashkelon. It went on and on. I’ve been awake for 20 hours by now, more and more names of the dead, and conversations with people begging for help. And I’m running low on forces.
A good friend comes in screaming that all his friends are dead and that he is the only survivor. I asked him to be taken to the other room so that I could stay focused, and emotionally detached. The phones kept ringing. I kept sending out forces.
Then the war room electricity has fallen. It is pitch black. We’re left with four phones and one radio frequency. I reported and tried to assess the current situation, mainly screaming about where are the forces that were supposed to help us. We’ve been on our own here for hours! I went crazy. I didn't get any answers. They kept telling me that they were dealing with it, but nothing happened. A soldier sent for reinforcement comes into the war room, telling us that almost all of his squad members are gone and that he needs help.
Seven single soldiers remained, taking refuge behind the doors with no one left to send. Nevertheless, they ventured out. And the cycle continues, with yet another soldier falling in combat, a comrade extricated from the heap of bodies. Even after successfully evacuating the wounded, there are always more injured within the unit. A little baby cries and screams in the background, a room filled with choking darkness and the scent of smoke, a siren that made us certain the enemy was about to strike. The electric door, previously sealed, finally opens, and they place cabinets, bunkers, and shelter in front of it, hoping for the best.
Once more, I'm reporting, crying out that if enforcement won't arrive in the next few minutes, we have no chance of making it out alive. Who am I reporting to? My comrades in the unit, my officer, to the people I know and love. I know it's not your fault, but there's no response. No response.
It's here that despair truly hits me - the lack of hope. My fellow soldiers are composing farewell messages to their families and friends, behind me, the wounded are on the floor. I stand there facing the phones and the open door, in the darkness, realizing we are entirely alone. I'm digesting what happened to all the intelligence, the combat intelligence officers, and the soldiers in the outpost next to us. I'm digesting that it seems our fate will be similar.
Someone turns on a light on their watch to check the phones of our unit, as we've seen nothing in ages. We pass the last remaining sips of water between us.
At 10 p.m., after 16 harrowing hours, soldiers from the elite Egoz unit arrive. We're in shock; someone has finally come. There are still terrorists in the area, and the extraction from the terror attack is on foot. We form rows, and they explain that they're rescuing us, bringing the first glimmer of hope.
Just before we exited, I requested they wait for a moment and return to my unit to communicate that we were being rescued. In a choked voice, I wished them success and went outside with tears in my eyes. The place that was once my home is now in ruins.
We don't know who survived, who perished, and who fought. We leave. The walk from the outpost to the bus felt like the longest seven seconds of my life. I look at the floor, gripping Hadar's hand, trying not to see all the bodies and blood, attempting to remember my second home as it once was, not as it has become.
At last, we reached the bus. I saw familiar faces from my platoon, and I couldn't believe it was really happening. Once we settled, someone said: "That's it, girls, everything's okay. Anyone want some cookies?" They handed us snacks at the back, just like on our annual class trip last year, and it reminded me why I love our people so much. Who thinks about buying cookies on their way to a rescue operation from one of the most dangerous places in the country?
Now I have managed to sit down and write this story, which will take me a long time to digest. I mainly want to say thank you to the brave soldiers of Golani's 51st Battalion who did everything to get us out of there alive. They fought wounded, they fought without proper gear, and they never gave up, even when they realized how dire the situation was. Thanks to Egoz, who rescued us and fought for us. It will take a while until we fully understand what happened there, and I really hope to identify the soldiers who protected us, those I haven't met yet, to thank you personally.
A massive thank you. Thank you all, on your behalf, and thank you to God. I share the grief of those who lost their loved ones, pray for the wounded, and for my friends who fell – I will never forget you, you are my heroes.