The youth of Gush Katif: The trauma, struggles of the once-teens of Israel's Gaza settlements

Any article on the teens of Gush Katif must begin with a caveat: “One can’t generalize about the teens or anyone. Everyone is different and reacted and behaved differently,” a resident told me.

Still, I share here the stories of several young people that moved me.

One community I visited was Ir Haemuna (“City of Faith”), a tent city set up in an abandoned hangar near Netivot.

The people of Atzmona, a deeply religious community with a variety of agricultural and educational enterprises, had split: One-third accepted the government’s offer and relocated to Yated (and later Naveh), while two-thirds opted to remain together and wait for land to rebuild. They spent 210 days in Ir Haemuna before moving to Shomriya, a kibbutz in the Lachish area, with only 11 families who were resettled elsewhere.

Shomriya is still a warm community of Torah scholars, professionals, and IDF officers. The family of the heroic Col. Yonatan Steinberg, commander of the 933rd Nahal Brigade, who fell in battle on Oct. 7, lives in Shomriya.

They were definitely not the norm in Atzmona. But, I thought, the resilience of a community and its pride is in its ability to accept those who walk a different path, even if temporarily.

I recently spoke with two of them: Raphael “Raful” DeGorkar, now 37, and Avinoam Biton, now 36.

Raful, whose nickname echoes that of the famous IDF chief of staff Rafael Eitan, was 17, the oldest of eight, and his memories are vivid. His parents didn’t pack before the expulsion.

“The message was, it won’t happen. When it did, it was a crisis. There was a loss of trust in the state and the army because the IDF evacuated us…. Not that we didn’t enlist; we did, but it was hard.”

He adds wryly, “Today, I’m on reserve duty in Gaza.”

“We saw our families crammed into tents. So we decided to make a space of our own. We’d sleep in that space. It became our home.

“The community believed in love and faith. And we saw where that got them. If everyone had protested like Kfar Darom, maybe things would’ve been different. I’m not saying they were wrong; I’m just saying that at that time, I disagreed with them.”

“Some people didn’t like us being there and called us ‘wild weeds’ [Israeli slang for ‘black sheep’].” His father, who had worked with at-risk youth, told others, “‘Leave them alone; let them protest; it’s okay… that’s how they discharge their frustration.’”

Avinoam has a more nuanced memory of the community’s attitude.

“Looking back now with a bit more maturity, I can see that even the adults were going through a serious crisis. And we, full of youthful energy, were trying to stop the expulsion.

“I think their feelings were mixed. The way we looked – the style – wasn’t what they wanted to see,” says Avinoam. “But we had a great connection with many in the community. We were lighthearted and fun. We were a close, idealistic, happy group, trying to do good, trying to build. And honestly, back then, I didn’t care too much what people thought.”

In spite of the trauma of the expulsion, Raful remained religious. “Before, during, and after.” As for Avinoam, “For a year or two after the expulsion I was a bit less connected to every single mitzva, but I never left my faith in God, no matter what.”

At first, Raful resisted the army. “I got red draft notices. Military police came to my home. Then my father said, ‘So many soldiers died so you could live today and so you could live in Gush Katif. Now it’s your turn to go.’ That changed something in me. I went. I was a combat engineer. I did the full three years.”

Afterward, he worked with his father for 10 years in a cowshed in Yatir, where it had been relocated to from Atzmona. “Eventually, Atzmona sold its share, but I stayed in Yatir, where I live now, and today, I’m the manager of the cowshed.”

He’s married to Alona, a special education teacher from Kiryat Arba who teaches children on the spectrum. They have four children, with a fifth on the way.

Back on reserve duty, he serves as a combat engineer. “We deal with explosives and mines – above and underground.” He’s been in and out of Gaza and Lebanon since October 2023, with a few breaks, and has two more months ahead of him.

“In 2009, during Operation Cast Lead, I told my commander, ‘I feel like I’m here for nothing. I lived here. They built a terror city here. Now we’re back, risking our lives. Why?’ I fought then in spite of it, and we’re still friends to this day; he’s still my commander. But that’s how I felt. I was 19 then. Now I’m 37.”

By 9 a.m. on October 7, he got the call and drove immediately to his base. “At this age, you understand why we need to go in. You just know deep inside yourself… if we had stayed, this wouldn’t have happened. The ways of God are hidden. But there would have been no October 7.”

Now a sergeant major, he oversees company logistics. “We work with everyone: armored corps, paratroopers, etc.

“What was, was. Everything that happens is for the good. We were raised to look forward.”

Avinoam says, "For me, the expulsion is a living event; it’s still unfolding. I was 16 and a half years old. A turbulent, black-and-white age. You don’t fully understand what you’re seeing.”

He’s now on a month-long break from reserve duty in Gaza, where he has worked with the engineering corps. He also did stints up North. “I knew this day would come. You can’t just shut the door and ignore that place [Gaza]. I thought we would be rebuilding a settlement already,” he says wistfully. “It will happen, God willing. I’ve already chosen where I would live.”

Of the “zula boys,” he says, “We’re a close group and still in touch. The expulsion shattered everything. Many kids dropped out of school.”

It took him years to get back on track. He showed up to be drafted at 20 after being in a yeshiva that encouraged him, “and thank God, I’m happy I did.”

During the evacuation, Avinoam stayed behind in the greenhouses with 20-25 teens and a few older guys for several weeks. Eventually, they returned to help evacuate the cowshed. “At sunset, we looked back; there was no more settlement. Just plants. We saw communities literally destroyed. It was a hard sight to see.”

On the day of the evacuation, the Atzmona community gathered for final prayers in the synagogue and then got on buses to evacuate.

“Today, I see it as more complex. In the army, I meet people from all backgrounds. Everyone brings their own strengths. I even developed admiration for that generation I used to look down on for not fighting more fiercely. As a teen, I didn’t understand.

“May we merit to return to the beach of Gaza. And may we merit the rebuilding of the Temple.”

Yedidya Harush, the third of seven children, was also born in Atzmona. His father was a lieutenant colonel in the military rabbinate, and his mother was a schoolteacher.

He loved growing up in Atzmona and near the sea but also remembers the terror and funerals. He watched the bulldozer destroy their home – a home his parents had continued to build in spite of the impending destruction, which they called “The house of faith.”

“The disengagement was very difficult.” He, too, hid in a different greenhouse before rejoining his family in Nof Ayalon, a town that, along with Sha’alvim, hosted Atzmona families in the beginning. Later, they moved to Yad Binyamin.

“When we exited the gates of Gush Katif, we had a choice to make: either remain angry and say, ‘We are no longer part of this country,’ or choose to still believe in the Land of Israel and be part of it.”

He received a scholarship through [Israeli basketball star] Tal Brody to attend a yeshiva in Highland Park, New Jersey, with two other friends, for their last two years of high school. When he returned, he enlisted in the IDF and became a paratrooper.

After his service, rather than going to law school, as planned, he joined his family in building up the Halutza region near Gaza and Egypt and began to work with the Jewish National Fund, which he still does today.

Three years ago, he founded the Emunah Matzah Bakery in Netivot. Through donations from Israel and abroad, including from the JNF, he was able to keep his workers employed and even supply matzot to the army and to the displaced in hotels while he was deployed.

He lives in Shlomit in the Halutza region and describes the horrors of October 7. “We were under a very crazy barrage of rockets. We were sitting in the bomb shelter, while the kids were hysterically crying and had just woken up to their worst nightmare.

“Four men from Shlomit – first responders – were killed: two of them while protecting a nearby community, Pri Gan, one on his way to his army base, and the fourth while on his way to get his weapon. Thanks to them, no one in Pri Gan died.”

The men who were left in Shlomit, including Yedidya, defended her. He helped monitor security with a drone donated through the JNF by a Florida family. “That drone saved us. I gave intel to all the forces near the fence and surrounding the community.”

After they were evacuated to Kfar Etzion, he recalls a flashback: “Long tables of toiletries, sheets, clothing, items for babies, pizza – just like after Gush Katif in Nof Ayalon. I couldn’t function at first. But then I organized things until I was called up to Gaza.”

Recently, he joined a new, elite counterterrorism unit for the Gaza envelope. “Locals who know the roads and can respond quickly [comprise the group]. I feel that my obligation is to the widows and the orphans and the kids who were left without protection. I want to have an answer to what happened on October 7.”

“No. Gush Katif was a dream home. But Hashem [God] had other plans. My mission is the Negev – to bring the spirit of Gush Katif to Halutza. And to connect with people who thought the opposite in August of 2005. Maybe one day we’ll go back. But I’m needed here now.”

“I would probably resist less. It’s all Hashem’s plan. My faith is stronger now, especially after October 7 and everything I’ve been through.”

I spoke with Moriya (Cohen) Hyman, originally of Ganei Tal, a moshav that was established in 1979 in Gush Katif and reestablished in 2012 near Kibbutz Hafetz Haim. She, too, was 17 at the time of the destruction of her home.

Three weeks before the expulsion, her beloved aunt and uncle, Rachel and Dov Kol, were murdered by terrorists while leaving Gush Katif after a family Shabbat. Today, she is married with seven children, lives in Eli, and has a nursery school in her home. Her parents, Ruti and Hezi Cohen, have rebuilt their home in the new Ganei Tal.

“We were filled with faith that, please God, it wouldn’t happen. We made a great effort, as a family, to live as usual, and I thought up until the last minute, perhaps a miracle would happen. But God decided differently, and what accompanied me throughout that time period was the question, ‘How will I go forward?’

“On the last night, I went with my father to the seashore, and I looked at the waves and saw them rolling in, and I thought, ‘I’m like those waves; I won’t break,’ and on the day of the expulsion, I said, ‘I can’t just walk out,’ so I took one of our many plants, and I said, ‘Just like this plant grows and blossoms, so will I.’

“Later, when we were permitted to return for a short time, I saw what had been our home and the homes of my friends and my sister in ruins, and I thought, ‘It took the state five minutes to destroy our homes, but nobody will destroy the lives we lived inside them, and we will continue with that forever.”

“Face-to-face meetings with Likud voters, the human chain that reached from Gush Katif to the Kotel (Western Wall), demonstrations, we distributed orange ribbons and flags, we went to information evenings all over the country to talk about Gush Katif, and I guided groups that came to visit Israel.

“We constantly tried to elevate the atmosphere within the Gush and help the residents and our parents to be strong even when others tried to weaken them.

“We have to learn about the great faith that was in Gush Katif throughout the years and of the faith of the people who afterward rose up and continued their lives.

“Every year in the summer, we go to a lookout where we can see Gush Katif, with the promise and the prayer that we will, with God’s help, return the moment we can. Meanwhile, we do the best wherever we live to spread the spirit of Gush Katif, and I ask myself, ‘How can I add good to Am Yisrael, and how can everyone, in his own way, do good things?’”

Amazia Yehieli's job for the Gush Katif Council was overseeing informal education, from youth movements to 12th grade. “I accompanied the youth from the terror period through the expulsion and stayed in touch for 10 years.”

After the expulsion, most teens didn’t want to enlist or did the minimum, with little motivation. “That was understandable. I told the army, ‘Let’s delay recruitment until March.’ It also depended on the home. Some parents didn’t want them to enlist.

“The IDF made a mistake by politicizing interview questions: ‘Who will you obey – your rabbi or your officer?’ They felt their loyalty was being questioned. Some said, ‘If that’s the question, we won’t enlist.’ I took the issue to the Knesset’s State Control Committee.

“At first, the military was rigid. Eventually, we met with Elazar Stern, head of IDF Human Resources. I raised the issue of political questioning. Stern said, ‘If I give the order, it will stop.’ And it stopped.”

He worked first with the Settler Committee. “Then, Rabbi Shimon Adler at the Education Ministry gave me an office and said, ‘Explain to us what to do; we don’t know.’”

Later, Yehieli worked with the SELA Administration, created to help those expelled, but that many felt failed miserably. “For us, it felt like working for the enemy. But I said, ‘I’ll put aside pride and help the youth.’” He credits his manager, Daniel Strul, for being professional and compassionate.

Over 10 years, he handled 1,500 to 2,000 cases. He flagged evacuees in the army database, helping soldiers switch units or get tested for elite tracks, fast-tracking mental health access for those dealing with depression, stress, and PTSD, and arranging leave for soldiers to help their families move into permanent homes.

“We tracked the numbers – how many entered combat, command, etc. After seven or eight years, things normalized. Many delayed service for yeshiva. Others dropped out due to stress, not rebellion.”

Sometimes, a chat over coffee was enough. “I met one soldier who refused to stand for ceremonies and wanted to quit. I said, ‘Aim higher – officers’ course.’ He did. He was active in an operation in Gaza and became a major.”

But some stories were more difficult. One soldier with PTSD was reassigned from combat. Another time, he got a call at a wedding from parents whose son was threatening suicide. “I took the phone and spoke to him and calmed him down.”

He has binders full of letters. “When I reach 120, they can bury me with them.”

He also helped teens post-army with university scholarships, degrees, and grants.

He offered help to the authorities for evacuees from October 7, but no one responded. “It’s the same hidden problems. In hotels, the family is scattered. No Shabbat table. No structure. They don’t even know their classmates.”

Girls struggled, too, and he supported them as well. “Some didn’t want Sherut Leumi (National Service). Others quit in the middle. The boys went to the army in groups. The girls were alone. It was harder. They didn’t talk, but I saw the signs in their behavior and in their speech. There was a lot of rebellion.”

A professor later quoted Yehieli in a book. “He gave me the first copy and wrote, ‘This book was born from your work.’”

A place of faith and song by the sea

“My idea was that by the power of spirit, we could keep going through all the emotions and chaos we were experiencing. Even before the expulsion, I felt it was a difficult period and age. There was tension – teenage years – and because of the constant Qassam rockets and terror attacks.

“We had a sukkah in the shopping center of Neve Dekalim, where we met. Later, we moved to Shirat Hayam [on the seashore].

“I felt that the soul connection between us and God is what will hold us. We can’t confront physical force, but with spiritual power, we can keep an anchor and hope.

“Aharon Razel came the last week and a half before the expulsion. He sat on the roof in Shirat Hayam with the kids and sang. That was our way to cope.

“In real time, the evacuation of Shirat Hayam took only two or three hours. Suddenly, thousands of soldiers in black uniforms covered the white beach. There was no real confrontation, just a symbolic clash: military might vs the power of spirit.

“The general even came in, and Razel started singing to him, ‘Do not uproot what has been planted.’ It was so innocent, but that was the Gush: good, innocent people, idealism, and Torah. The break was that the state betrayed us.

“We didn’t know what mental prep the soldiers had been put through, mixing good and bad, making us the enemy ‘for the sake of the people.’ All that shattered later, on October 7. It really began in Oslo, but we had spirit against the force of displacement and confusion. Symbolic but real.”

Avinoam remembers visiting the place that Ruhama Shapira created and calls it “a dream.”

Today, Ruhama and her family live in Bat Ayin in Gush Etzion.

In February this year, a new synagogue was dedicated in Shomriya to the memory of Col. Yonatan Steinberg, and the secular head of the local regional council spoke about the wonderful relationship between the people of Shomriya and the nearby secular kibbutzim and how happy he is that they live among them.

Ruhama ends with a blessing: “May we all merit to increase light and fight darkness – each one inside, as a society, as a people – until we influence the world... to be a light to the nations waiting for us, here and abroad…” 