Raz Liani ’19

Posted on October 6, 2024

“I think being Israeli today means living with duality.”

I’m Raz, Amitim 2019. Originally from Kibbutz Ashdot Yaakov near the Sea of Galilee. I recently returned from a long period abroad and moved to live and work on a farm in Otef Aza (the Gaza Envelope, colloquially known as “the Otef” – “the Envelope”).

Home to the Otef

I wasn’t here when the war began. After completing my national service, I traveled through Central and North America, and three months ago I decided to come back.

I felt that I needed to be here, in the communities of the Otef. Many people in the country, specifically in the border region, experienced the events of October 7 firsthand and are unable to return to this area. Meanwhile, I, who have a lot of love and connection to the region, did not experience it directly; I experienced it from afar, and I do have the mental capacity to be here. I felt a sense of responsibility. If people like me don’t rise up and help, then who will?

My brother lived for a time on Kibbutz Nir Oz. His adoptive family from the kibbutz – the Angel family – were all kidnapped on October 7th. Ronen, the father, was murdered in captivity. The mother and two daughters were released in the first hostage exchange. That became my call to action.

On October 7th, my brother fought in the bloody battle in Kissufim. He almost didn’t survive. When he was released, after five months in Gaza, he felt he needed to leave the country, and now he’s in Australia. I felt that I was returning for him, to preserve the place that had been his home, a place he loved deeply, which is now very difficult for him to go back to.

It’s hard for me to talk about this without mentioning Oriya, who was in my Bronfman cohort and was killed in battle in Khan Yunis. He fell right here – just 7-8 kilometers away – to protect this land.

Being here is the least I can do for him. So this is for him, too.

Bringing Life Back to the Farm

It’s important to hold onto the idea that there is still a glimmer of light here – that we are not just engulfed in flames, but we can also spread light. That it is possible to live in this place.

The war brought everything to a halt and businesses in the area have only recently started to reopen, relying mostly on tourism as most of the local population has been evacuated.

I came here with a desire to help bring people and life back to the area. So now I’m living and working at El HaYaen Farm, a small family business that’s been around for 40 years. It is truly a magical place.

We have a wonderful guest facility where families and couples from outside the region come to get away and spend time in nature. Here they get to experience something different from what they’ve been seeing in the media over the past year. We still hear the sirens and fighter jets, but mostly it feels quiet and serene.

Compassion and Complexity

I think being Israeli today means living with duality. I can mourn the deaths of my friends and the destruction of a place that I called home, while simultaneously believing that the way our government is operating right now is unjust and inhumane. Recognizing the situation in Gaza doesn’t negate my pain over those losses or my desire to help my community. We are genuinely fighting for our lives, while also fighting against our government. We are trying to break free from this cycle of violence.

There are things I have control over and things I don’t. I can participate in protests but I can’t stop an entire army. I don’t have all the answers – this is much bigger than me – but I can do my best to make a positive impact where possible and to protect my home. If no one were here at the farm, it would have already become a closed war zone.

Being human means holding compassion and complexity. We can see both sides without trying to justify only one. Showing compassion for Israelis doesn’t mean I’m against the Palestinian struggle, and supporting Palestinians doesn’t mean I’m anti-Israel. We can simply support human rights.