The Hamas attacks in Israel have a grotesque ideological history and deserve unflinching moral judgment.
The guts of the house spill through its blown-out windows like entrails from a sacrificed animal. The resident of this house in Kfar Aza, Israel, died during the attacks that tore it to pieces on October 7, 2023. The debris of his life—books, board games, furniture, lamps, clothes, pillows—pour out onto the front yard where they are now being soaked by the rain.
I’m standing on the porch, making sure my recording equipment is covered and dry. A corrugated metal roof, ripped halfway off, hangs over the porch and waves in the wind. It lets out a high and lonesome sound like a musical saw or the moan of a ghost.
Most of the houses on the block look like this one—shattered and gutted. The mood in Kfar Aza is dystopian, as though the world ended and people were left to pick up the pieces. Only, the world did not end on October 7. The repercussions of that day are being carried out in Gaza as I stand there, and they echo on city streets, at college campuses, and in schuls and synagogues around the world.
Kfar Aza is a kibbutz that sits about three kilometers from the Gaza border. Like most kibbutzim, it was founded as a utopian, agrarian commune. These border communities were committed to peace, welcoming Gazans who had work permits to come serve the community. They were also the hardest hit by Hamas.
It feels both intimate and invasive to be here. I move to the living room. Like most of the homes here, it’s small. Through one doorway is an untidy bedroom where someone leapt out of bed when sirens went off at 6:30 in the morning. Turning around, I see a wall pockmarked with bullet holes and a ransacked room. Spots on floors and walls are bleached where blood was wiped away, and dark stains remain where …
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