Two weeks ago, after 738 days in Hamas captivity, Gali and Ziv Berman returned home. Well, not exactly to their home in Kfar Aza, which still stands violated and partly burned along with their neighborhood. Their release closed one of Israel’s darkest chapters and quietly unlocked another. For the first time since October 7, Kfar Aza can finally begin its long-delayed vision of tekuma – renewal.
For two years, the kibbutz vowed not to reveal or begin construction of its new youth neighborhood until the very last hostages came home. That moral commitment defined this place as much as its grief. Now, with the Bermans free, Kfar Aza must answer a harder question: What does rebuilding mean when the ground itself remembers?
Time that froze
When I arrived last week, Orit Tzadikovich guided me through the “young neighborhood,” where posters of smiling faces fluttered on walls still scarred by bullets. She paused at the spot where the Bermans were kidnapped. Their photos hung on a blackened wall.
“It’s strange,” she said softly. “The first time I’ve seen their faces here after they’ve come back.”
Before the massacre, this neighborhood symbolized idealism: 32 young adults, ages 18 to 28, building homes at the edge of the kibbutz. That morning, half were slaughtered. Seven were taken hostage. Sixty houses were destroyed. Out of 900 residents, only about 20 have returned. The rest still live temporarily in Ruhama.
The kibbutz decided to leave the destroyed neighborhood untouched. The ruins remain as found: charred, silent, sacred. “No one can live here again,” Orit said. “It’s consecrated ground.”
Waiting before building
Across the country, reconstruction projects move quickly. Yet Kfar Aza has taught Israel another language of recovery, one that begins with restraint.
The kibbutz’s leaders decided that renewal must wait until every hostage returned. Their patience carried a moral clarity rare in a world obsessed with progress.
Now, at last, the plans can unfold. The new youth complex, part of the community’s Tekuma initiative, will not stand again on the exposed border but in the heart of the kibbutz, surrounded by gardens and shared spaces.
It is both architectural and symbolic: young life moved from the edge of danger to the center of belonging.
Alon Futterman’s spirit
At the center of this mission stands Alon Futterman, director of the Kfar Azza Foundation. A veteran social-impact leader and educator, Futterman has spent the past two years coordinating national and international partners to rebuild not only homes but hope.
According to the official site, rebuild-kfar-azza.com, the total budget required for the first stage – 48 new homes – is NIS 45.9 million. Of this, NIS 30.1m. has already been approved for rehabilitation, including state funding, leaving a funding gap of NIS 15.8m. still to be raised.
“The goal,” the site explains, “is not only to restore what was lost but to build something stronger – homes that symbolize resilience and community.” Under Futterman’s direction, contributions from around the world are turning that vision into reality.
Memory as foundation
The destroyed neighborhood will remain a memorial. Each home still bears traces of remembrance: photos, handwritten notes, and makeshift memorials placed by families and friends. Burned walls, melted furniture, and shattered windows tell their own story. In one house, a sofa remains where a young couple was murdered; in another, the scent of ash still lingers.
The community continues to debate how to preserve these ruins without turning them into a spectacle. Should visitors enter freely, or should a barrier separate memory from daily life? There are no easy answers, only the understanding that rebuilding without remembering would betray the dead.
Orit showed me her ex-husband’s home, the one where he was murdered that morning. It is half restored, still without a door. “Anyone can walk in – cats, dogs, the wind,” she said. “We’re replacing doors, not hearts.”
That sentence, like the kibbutz itself, holds both brokenness and faith.
A national mirror
Kfar Aza is more than a site of tragedy. It is a mirror for Israel’s conscience. In a nation racing to rebuild, this kibbutz chose to wait, to remember, to place human dignity before cement.
Now, with Gali and Ziv Berman home, the waiting ends. Cranes will soon arrive, foundations will be laid, and life will cautiously return. Yet the old neighborhood still stands, visible from every new window – a scar and a question, a daily reminder of what was lost and how it should be remembered.
Two years after October 7, Kfar Aza still stands between ruin and rebirth. Its people are weary, but their spirit endures. Where the young fell, a new generation will rise.
The writer, a photojournalist, has returned to Sderot, where he focuses on the Gaza border communities as a global hub of resilience and innovation, documenting how recovery efforts and civic leadership are shaping the region’s future.