A charming green and orange picture drawn by children circles the bottom of the tree on the family's front lawn. "What a Wonderful Day?" the visible half announces to people passing by. Windowsills are filled with toys and childish keepsakes. The family name is carved into the wooden sign near the ample gazebo overlooking the street. Tables bear colorful soft drinks, cakes and bottles of chilled water. Clearly many people are expected. Except for the refreshments, the scene is just as it was before the mother of the family took her children for an outing.
A large blue tent billows in the soft breeze a few footsteps from the front door, just past the tree and its merry sign. It shields visitors from the overhead sun, resting on a neatly manicured lawn. All the lawns in the neighborhood look as lush as this one, every home as beautiful a villa as the one over here. A faint scent of ocean air floats among the warm perfume of the blossoming flowers filling every neighborhood yard. Children scamper over sand dunes in the distance. One little boy shyly saunters by the crowd, listlessly holding a bunch of colorful balloons. None of the youngsters are audible. There are no outdoor sounds competing with the faint bird songs here and there, only the soft conversational mumbling inside the tent. The children and the birds, life's gentlest creatures, see the emphatic presence of IDF tanks on the roads, the silent soldiers perched on them.
At the community synagogue the doorways are decorated with jewel-colored glass mezuzot cases that gleam in the bright sunshine. Appointed with softly colored wooden trim and beams, smooth stucco walls accented with cream-colored tiles and beige ceramic floors, the synagogue is large, antiseptically clean and airily inviting. Its large wooden front door is open. The door touches a hand-made poster on the outside wall. "The Eternal People Does Not Fear," childish writing proclaims. The men inside are discussing the imminent arrival of a donated Torah scroll.
Everything here looks fresh and alive, but something important is amiss. The men in the synagogue are finalizing plans to use the soon-to-arrive Torah, a "Tree of Life for Those Who Keep Its Laws", as a memorial. They keep glancing and sighing toward the blue tent and replenished reception tables before the only house in the area with cars densely parked around it. Sad-eyed soldiers mill about there as relatives and friends arrive to share their grief. The wooden sign with the family name flips in a gust of wind.
Hatuel.
Tali Hatuel's mother, Shoshana, is holding my hands as she sits upon an overturned mattress on the ground inside the blue tent, gently explaining to me that the Jewish People only needs to live with its emunah and tikva, faith and hope, as we have always done. "And when a Jew sees a Jew that is not exactly like him, not dressed the same, religious or not religious, we must say 'Shalom!' and be friendly. We are all one family." Tali's two sisters listen, gazing alternatively at their mother and at the crowd before them. Their clothes are ripped at the neckline, above their hearts.
David Hatuel is mourning his wife and children, H.y.d., with his father-in-law on another mattress nearby, grasping the hands of men embracing and kissing them. When visitors are not leaning down to pay their respects, David's handsome face is strong, his gaze steady. He holds the eyes of his companions as they speak. His straight back and set mouth bespeak the strength of his will. His twelve-year residence in Gush Katif, his very life before and after the loss of his family, is a message to one and all. Its essence is captured on a sign near the community center, where black Hebrew letters spell out "The Jews will live forever in Israel in every generation..." They are interrupted by the bold red words, "And I [G-d] will avenge their blood." Part of the Av Harachamim prayer from the Shabbat service, the poster completes the phrase in black letters, "And I [G-d] will dwell in Zion."
A cell phone chirrups near Tali's bereaved mother, who answers most calls.
"They are from Hong Kong, the USA, everywhere," she tells me. "People are so sad, so sorry. I don't know them. Yet they call."
The details of the Torah donation have been finalized. The holy scroll will soon grace the Hatuel's community. With an eternal message abut what constitutes moral behavior and a Divine guarantee about the destiny of the Jewish People, it's a fitting tribute to the woman and children it will memorialize.
"Tali was so sad that there was no Torah here when she first arrived," her mother explains to me. "She came with her mezuzot and mattresses. There wasn't much."
At the Kissufim junction, a few kilometers from the house, spinning off the winding asphalt ribbon that is the Gush Katif Highway, is an area of sand gutted with frantic tire treads crazily pointing in various directions and well below the surface. It is here that bloodlust prompted the murders of Tali and her defenseless children, H.y.d., one by shrieking one. Visitors have the option of arriving to this spot in an armored vehicle, shielded from bullets and intruders. Tali and her children didn't have that privilege when they ventured out to convince fellow Israelis to vote for the preservation of Gush Katif.
As I look on the scene, a radio nearby broadcasts jarring updates about Iraqi prisoners of war. Those Coalition prisoners, who would have continued to cause chaos and mayhem had they not been stopped, garner more media sympathy than do these defenseless innocents. There is no mention on the airwaves of the obscenity that happened here.
"I used to be against the Gush, a real Likudnik all the way to the right," my cab driver Moshe had announced on our way here. "Then I met the people and I changed my mind."
He later points out the parallel Arab road bobbing up and down among the sand dunes as we drive from the shiva house. "They can drive totally unafraid, and the Jews are close by." Moshe jabs a finger at the dilapidated housing below eye level that he says is occupied by Bedouin "who moved in after the other Arabs fled. They deserted their homes." Moshe laughs at the sight of the Palestinian Flour Mills building. "Nobody produces, nobody buys," he scoffs. "It's a facade." He sighs for the lovely palm trees removed from the roads by the IDF: "They were cover for Arab sniper fire."
As Moshe and our companions head toward Jerusalem, other visitors leave the large blue tent and walk on the other side of the tree in the Hatuel's front yard. They must surely see the rest of the ironic sign ringing the front-yard tree, as we did. "What a Wonderful Day? in Gush Katif."
A large blue tent billows in the soft breeze a few footsteps from the front door, just past the tree and its merry sign. It shields visitors from the overhead sun, resting on a neatly manicured lawn. All the lawns in the neighborhood look as lush as this one, every home as beautiful a villa as the one over here. A faint scent of ocean air floats among the warm perfume of the blossoming flowers filling every neighborhood yard. Children scamper over sand dunes in the distance. One little boy shyly saunters by the crowd, listlessly holding a bunch of colorful balloons. None of the youngsters are audible. There are no outdoor sounds competing with the faint bird songs here and there, only the soft conversational mumbling inside the tent. The children and the birds, life's gentlest creatures, see the emphatic presence of IDF tanks on the roads, the silent soldiers perched on them.
At the community synagogue the doorways are decorated with jewel-colored glass mezuzot cases that gleam in the bright sunshine. Appointed with softly colored wooden trim and beams, smooth stucco walls accented with cream-colored tiles and beige ceramic floors, the synagogue is large, antiseptically clean and airily inviting. Its large wooden front door is open. The door touches a hand-made poster on the outside wall. "The Eternal People Does Not Fear," childish writing proclaims. The men inside are discussing the imminent arrival of a donated Torah scroll.
Everything here looks fresh and alive, but something important is amiss. The men in the synagogue are finalizing plans to use the soon-to-arrive Torah, a "Tree of Life for Those Who Keep Its Laws", as a memorial. They keep glancing and sighing toward the blue tent and replenished reception tables before the only house in the area with cars densely parked around it. Sad-eyed soldiers mill about there as relatives and friends arrive to share their grief. The wooden sign with the family name flips in a gust of wind.
Hatuel.
Tali Hatuel's mother, Shoshana, is holding my hands as she sits upon an overturned mattress on the ground inside the blue tent, gently explaining to me that the Jewish People only needs to live with its emunah and tikva, faith and hope, as we have always done. "And when a Jew sees a Jew that is not exactly like him, not dressed the same, religious or not religious, we must say 'Shalom!' and be friendly. We are all one family." Tali's two sisters listen, gazing alternatively at their mother and at the crowd before them. Their clothes are ripped at the neckline, above their hearts.
David Hatuel is mourning his wife and children, H.y.d., with his father-in-law on another mattress nearby, grasping the hands of men embracing and kissing them. When visitors are not leaning down to pay their respects, David's handsome face is strong, his gaze steady. He holds the eyes of his companions as they speak. His straight back and set mouth bespeak the strength of his will. His twelve-year residence in Gush Katif, his very life before and after the loss of his family, is a message to one and all. Its essence is captured on a sign near the community center, where black Hebrew letters spell out "The Jews will live forever in Israel in every generation..." They are interrupted by the bold red words, "And I [G-d] will avenge their blood." Part of the Av Harachamim prayer from the Shabbat service, the poster completes the phrase in black letters, "And I [G-d] will dwell in Zion."
A cell phone chirrups near Tali's bereaved mother, who answers most calls.
"They are from Hong Kong, the USA, everywhere," she tells me. "People are so sad, so sorry. I don't know them. Yet they call."
The details of the Torah donation have been finalized. The holy scroll will soon grace the Hatuel's community. With an eternal message abut what constitutes moral behavior and a Divine guarantee about the destiny of the Jewish People, it's a fitting tribute to the woman and children it will memorialize.
"Tali was so sad that there was no Torah here when she first arrived," her mother explains to me. "She came with her mezuzot and mattresses. There wasn't much."
At the Kissufim junction, a few kilometers from the house, spinning off the winding asphalt ribbon that is the Gush Katif Highway, is an area of sand gutted with frantic tire treads crazily pointing in various directions and well below the surface. It is here that bloodlust prompted the murders of Tali and her defenseless children, H.y.d., one by shrieking one. Visitors have the option of arriving to this spot in an armored vehicle, shielded from bullets and intruders. Tali and her children didn't have that privilege when they ventured out to convince fellow Israelis to vote for the preservation of Gush Katif.
As I look on the scene, a radio nearby broadcasts jarring updates about Iraqi prisoners of war. Those Coalition prisoners, who would have continued to cause chaos and mayhem had they not been stopped, garner more media sympathy than do these defenseless innocents. There is no mention on the airwaves of the obscenity that happened here.
"I used to be against the Gush, a real Likudnik all the way to the right," my cab driver Moshe had announced on our way here. "Then I met the people and I changed my mind."
He later points out the parallel Arab road bobbing up and down among the sand dunes as we drive from the shiva house. "They can drive totally unafraid, and the Jews are close by." Moshe jabs a finger at the dilapidated housing below eye level that he says is occupied by Bedouin "who moved in after the other Arabs fled. They deserted their homes." Moshe laughs at the sight of the Palestinian Flour Mills building. "Nobody produces, nobody buys," he scoffs. "It's a facade." He sighs for the lovely palm trees removed from the roads by the IDF: "They were cover for Arab sniper fire."
As Moshe and our companions head toward Jerusalem, other visitors leave the large blue tent and walk on the other side of the tree in the Hatuel's front yard. They must surely see the rest of the ironic sign ringing the front-yard tree, as we did. "What a Wonderful Day? in Gush Katif."