Rebuilding Malkiya: Israeli farmers on border of Lebanon face attacks to keep kibbutz alive
Adrenaline coursed through my veins as I moved across the field, battling the fire. The smoke stung my eyes as its pungent smell filled the air. As the smoke blackened, it became hard to see. The intense heat made our clothes stick to our skin, and the ash stained our skin.
- 1 month ago
August 4, 2024
Fire near Malkiya Kibbutz | Photo courtesy of Eitan Oren
MALKIYA, Israel — Forty years ago, life in the kibbutz dazzled me. It felt like destiny, to live in a kibbutz surrounded by nature and animals. I fulfilled my dream in Malkiya, where I met my wife, and we had three daughters and a son. On October 7, 2023, when Hamas attacked Israel, it shattered my idyllic life.
Today, walking through the streets of my kibbutz feels like navigating a ghost town. Children no longer play in the gardens and families bring no life to this place. Birdsongs compete with the thunder of gunfire and shelling from Lebanon. Only 15 of us remain. We hope to maintain the kibbutz for when others feel safe to return.
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Returning to a ghost town: the struggle to rebuild Malkiya amid conflict
The morning Hamas attacked I was in Oklahoma teaching people at a Judeo-Christian church about Israel. When I saw the news, I felt petrified. Anxious to get home to my family and community, I faced flight cancellations and for a month, stayed on another continent watching the events unfold through the media.
Together with friends, we collected donations for the Israeli army. From afar, I learned that many of my neighbors self-evacuated and left the kibbutz. When I finally returned, I encountered a completely different place.
Nature still shone in all its splendor, but the community almost entirely left. Of the 600 residents, only 15 remained. The deserted streets and the absence of voices shocked me, interrupted only by distant pops. It felt heartbreaking.
My village, once vibrant with children running everywhere, now felt like a ghost town. Some houses were hit and destroyed by missiles. Unwilling to become discouraged, we organized ourselves, cleaned up the rubble, and covered the missile holes with wood. We wanted to make Malkiya a home again for those who might return.
Today, I live alone in my house; my family moved elsewhere. The house feels too big without them, and I miss them dearly. The spaces where we once spent time together bring back memories, but I try not to let it affect me emotionally and focus on the important things. Despite my family’s absence, I do not feel completely alone. Those who stayed are more than friends; they are my brothers.
Battling flames and adversity: the resilient spirit of Malkiya’s farmers
In mid-May, before summer, the rains ceased. Dry fields and nearby shelling sparked fires. We quickly organized, using tanker vehicles and air-blowing backpacks to combat the flames threatening our land. Using improvised tools felt daunting. While we stand ready for anything, we knew the resources remained inadequate.
Adrenaline coursed through my veins as I moved across the field, battling the fire. The smoke stung my eyes as its pungent smell filled the air. As the smoke blackened, it became hard to see. The intense heat made our clothes stick to us, and the ash stained our skin.
The wind easily pushed the flames toward our crops. Our vineyards, where we grow grapes for eating and wine production, were partially affected. Our crops serve as more than a simple part of our village. They also provide our livelihood, so we had to fight the flames from consuming them. The fight was unequal, but we stood firm.
So far, the 15 of us have repelled every threat to our beloved home. In the face of this, I feel no fear. We stand brave, willing to protect the kibbutz no matter the consequences. Each day, we move forward with determination on this dry, creaking ground, sometimes covered in ashes.
Finding solace in family amid armed conflict
Initially, the sound of shelling kept me awake at night. Now, it hardly affects me. It feels remarkable how the body and mind adapt. It seems as if my brain erased those booming sounds, which still occur but no longer bother me. Signs indicate, however, I may be in a permanent state of alertness.
To take breaks from our 15-hour workdays on the farm, we take turns going on holiday. When I travel to cities like Tel Aviv, I cannot completely relax. A sudden loud noise from a vehicle causes me to look around anxiously, thinking a missile landed. I try not to be paranoid but find myself constantly scanning the environment, ready for anything.
The only thing that truly helps me escape is playing with my one-year-old granddaughter. I often drive an hour south to visit my eldest daughter. Seeing my granddaughter, all my worries vanish, replaced by the joy and love I feel. Her clumsy, graceful movements and curiosity make me forget my problems.
Yet, my visits remain brief, sometimes only an hour. I feel the need to return to the kibbutz, as I must be there to respond to emergencies. Fires could start, a missile could fall, or an invasion could occur. So, we wait here, ready to do whatever is needed.
