A volunteer’s quiet mission to bring life back to a wounded kibbutz
A Message on the Wall
In a corner of a school, on a volunteer bulletin board, Sarit noticed a drawing pinned quietly among the notices. It was a tree – brittle, bent, and nearly uprooted. A single word was written beside it: Hope.
“To me, it symbolized exactly where the Gaza Envelope is right now,” she says. “Hope – fragile, damaged, almost falling. That image has stayed with me.”
Sarit, a high school teacher from Nahariya, moved to Kfar Aza as a volunteer with Shnat Sherut 50 Plus. She didn’t come to fix or rescue. She came to be present – to live inside the aftermath and help coax life back into a place where hope has been battered but not broken.
From the North to the South, from one Frontline to Another
Sarit is no stranger to sirens and fear. During the war, Nahariya – her hometown – was under frequent attack.
Moving to Kfar Aza, one of the hardest-hit kibbutzim on October 7th, wasn’t a theoretical gesture. It meant living in an emptied-out community, with silence where there had once been laughter, and locked homes where children had once played.
“I live here all week. I don’t commute in and out. That decision has made all the difference.”
Tending a Garden, Reclaiming a Space
Along with her housemates, Dorit and Sigal, Sarit began tending the neglected garden outside their temporary home. They weeded, dug, planted, swept. Little by little, a new kind of presence took hold – one that wasn’t loud or dramatic, but consistent.
“It started as something simple. Just cleaning up. But it became something deeper. A way of saying: this place matters. It still has life in it.”
The small garden – modest but blooming – now stands as a metaphor for the entire community.
“The people who will return need to know that the homes are alive again. That they’ve been cared for. That someone was here.”
Images of Pain, Acts of Hope
Sarit sees symbols of the trauma everywhere. In drawings. In the silence. In the overgrown paths and abandoned houses. But she insists on meeting them with gentle resistance.
“I’m not here to erase the pain. I’m here to say – life continues. Even when it’s hard. Especially then.”
This belief shapes her daily work as a volunteer teacher at Nofei HaBesor and Sha’ar HaNegev schools, where she teaches civics and social sciences. But it’s also expressed in smaller acts: morning messages to her students with photos from the road, reflections on the wind and the colour of the fields, and the simple care given to a shared living space.
Why Hope Matters Here
The drawing she saw on the bulletin board – that broken tree of hope – could easily have been overlooked. But for Sarit, it became a call to action.
“We’re here to help rebuild something that isn’t just physical. It’s emotional, too. It’s about helping hope stand upright again.”
She doesn’t speak of grand gestures. She speaks of consistency. Of companionship. Of being willing to live where others are afraid to return.
“Even if I only help one family feel that it’s possible to come back, that’s enough.”
