A reflection on the recent Board of Deputies Mission to Israel with support from UJIA
by Alina Weismann, Under 35 Observer for West London Synagogue
We met at a Jerusalem promenade overlooking the Old City. We talked about what this city and country meant to us. Our group was small – six deputies and observers plus a few staff, our guide, a guard, and the driver.
On the bus as we were talking about our journeys, a siren sounded. We were asked to sit on the floor, put our hands over our heads and cover until the sirens outside stopped ringing and the red alert was over. It almost sounded routine to the people there, but it was the first siren I ever participated in.
Later in Sderot, a border town near Gaza, we saw the devastation from 7 October 2023. Hamas terrorists had rampaged through the town that day, killing everyone they found. It became a ghost town until the military regained control a week later. Memorials now stand where the police station once was. Remarkably, about 5,000 new residents (a 14% increase) have since moved to Sderot to rebuild.
We kept hearing about חוסן (chossem) – resilience – carrying on despite pain. This was Israel’s longest war, and people noted the impossibility of killing an ideology like Hamas. Society was torn: some demanded a ceasefire to bring the hostages home, while others insisted on fighting until Hamas was destroyed. There was also bitter anger at the government’s failures.
At Kibbutz Mefalsim, under army security, we met survivors. One man, an Argentinian immigrant named Michael, shared his story. In his fifties and dressed all in black (he had worn only black since Oct 7), Michael attended therapy three times a week and still struggled to sleep. Yet he had spent the last decade helping bring 50 families into the kibbutz.
I was impressed, it was not necessarily safe to live here, but it was a mindset for these people: if kibbutzim disappeared, the Israeli borders would disappear. “We are still here and that’s the most important thing.” Their courage gave me goosebumps, as did the testimony Michael shared with us of what happened to Kibbutz Mefalsim on that black Shabbat. My retelling doesn’t do justice to their almost miraculous story. It was the kibbutz where no one died.
Michael recounted how, on the night of 8 October, he evacuated his family to Tel Aviv. From there, he organised the entire displaced kibbutz community into one overcrowded hotel for months until they could return home.
Whole families had to share single rooms, but they still created a semblance of normal life in that hotel: they set up a kindergarten and a school, celebrated Shabbat and holidays, held weddings, even welcomed new babies. These farmers endured war, exile, and return. When the kibbutz finally came back, many young people moved in, inspired by that resilience. As we spoke, Michael’s face lit up when a kindergarten class strolled by – dozens of children, alive and safe.
With little drops of water, there are small black pipes out in the fields. They made the desert green, and I was amazed by how lush the fields were – full of flowers and big trees. Without a single sprinkler, they grew more than enough to feed the country and even export produce abroad. We eventually walked to the edge of those fields, right up to the barbed-wire fence. Beyond that fence, only one kilometre away, lay Gaza.
People here watch the sunset over Gaza, knowing the hostages are just over there. On one side of the fence was abundance; just a few hundred meters away in Gaza was misery and hunger – a desert by the sea. It didn’t make sense that Israel’s fields yielded plenty to export while people in Gaza went hungry. My bones felt heavy, my throat tightened, and tears stung my eyes.
Next we visited the site of the Nova music festival near Re’im, where hundreds of young people had been dancing at dawn. Hamas fighters stumbled upon the festival on Oct 7 and massacred as many people as possible. The music only stopped when the gunfire began.
As our bus approached, we saw that the open field had been turned into a memorial forest. Everywhere, little trees and placards bore the faces of the dead – hundreds of them, especially crowded around what had been the dance floor. Many people from all over Israel were there to pay tribute: diaspora groups, locals, soldiers, even a singing kibbutz choir.
There were sounds of gun fire and artillery, but that was normal here, the guide said, I shivered.
We recited Kaddish, prayed, and lit candles in that forest-turned-graveyard. I walked among the memorials friends and families had created, learning who these victims were. Their photos showed vibrant young people – DJs, artists, travellers – full of life. They loved the sunrise and were dancing when the rockets came. I cried.
One guide gently asked how I felt. I admitted I was shaken. He then asked if I had ever been to a concentration camp. I said yes, but this felt different. He nodded: “Concentration camps seemed like they were in a different country. This happened here, in Israel.” My grandfather survived Auschwitz, but that was another generation. “This is—” I began, unable to finish. “Us. Our generation,” the guide said, completing my thought.
That night we visited Hostage Square in Tel Aviv – a public vigil for Israelis held captive by Hamas. In the square, a makeshift tunnel installation let visitors glimpse a fraction of the hostages’ ordeal. I stepped inside. It was completely dark, with recorded sounds of missiles, muffled voices, and heavy footsteps above. My insides flipped with fear; I could hardly stand in there. I asked why anyone would build such a harrowing tunnel. I was told it drew international media attention – forcing the world to remember the hostages.
Even the hostage families were divided: some wanted the war to continue until Hamas was eliminated, while others wanted an immediate halt to save their children.
We talked about hope as an active thing, a responsibility, active, and creative.
On Monday morning we visited ANU – the Museum of the Jewish People – where I spotted an artifact connected to my own family’s history. We left reflecting on the diversity of Jewish life, including within our small delegation.
That afternoon we volunteered at Leket, packing boxes of surplus vegetables for families in need. We worked hard and even turned it into a friendly competition. Two Deputies took it very seriously, and had the most fun “winning.” After all the sorrow, this hands-on work was a refreshing and fun break.
I got up at 6am, knowing that a few others went out to go to the Church of Holy Sepulchre. But I felt sick that morning – there was so much going on. The past days’ images and conversations swirled in my mind: friends defending Hamas, the faces of the Nova victims, the darkness of that hostage tunnel. It was too much. I threw up.
At the Knesset, Israel’s parliament, we entered the main hall. The public gallery was behind bulletproof glass, and instead of visitors its front rows were filled with photos of the hostages. There were reminders of the missing everywhere in the building – daunting to behold.
As we toured a hallway, a woman with two aides approached us. It was MK Efrat Rayten, a Democrat Member of the Knesset. She greeted us warmly and invited us into her office. On the wall was a large poster of the hostages beside portraits of Ben-Gurion and Rabin. There truly wasn’t anywhere in government without a tribute to the hostages.
Efrat spoke about her son in the army and the challenges the country faced. Before we left, one of our group asked what she wanted us to take away from this trip.
She smiled and said that three days were not enough – there was so much more to see and do. She urged us to return and promised to host us again. Most of all, she wanted us to know that people like her were fighting for Israel every day in the Knesset.
On the taxi drive, close to the airport, we passed by the giant hole in the ground next to the motorway where the Houthi missile hit at the beginning of our journey. The highway was running as if nothing had happened. Those days had been difficult – early mornings and late nights – yet they were also filled with laughter, friendships, and lessons.
When I landed in Heathrow, I randomly saw the father of the Board. We said our hellos and though I felt exhausted, I was so grateful to the Board of Deputies and UJIA for organising this meaningful journey.
To find out more about the Under 35 Assembly and how to get involved, please email U35Assembly@bod.org.uk