I was sitting in New York, watching live footage that didn’t seem possible — at least not in a Jewish state. Soldiers in IDF uniforms — our own brothers and sisters — walking into homes in Gush Katif, telling families they had hours to leave. Mothers crying on kitchen floors. Fathers holding Torah scrolls as if they were holding on to the last piece of their soul. Children clutching dolls and backpacks, not because they were going to school, but because they were being thrown out of their bedrooms forever.
The Gaza Disengagement — “Hitnatkut” — had begun.
That summer, Israel dismantled 21 Jewish communities in Gaza and four in northern Samaria. Nearly 9,000 Jews were expelled from their homes. Every synagogue destroyed or handed over to be burned. Every farm — which had turned barren sand into fertile fields — abandoned to the very people who had spent years trying to kill those farmers.
We were told it was a brave step toward peace. We were told the world would finally see Israel’s “goodwill” and that in return we would see quiet. But those of us paying attention — even from thousands of miles away — knew the truth: we weren’t ending a war, we were moving the front line closer to our children.
I moved to Israel years later. By then, the results were undeniable. Gaza didn’t become the Singapore of the Middle East, as some naively predicted. It became an armed camp for Hamas.
• Over 20,000 rockets launched at Israeli towns.
• Miles of terror tunnels dug under the border.
• Billions in foreign aid siphoned into weapons instead of hospitals and schools.
• An entire generation raised to see killing Jews as their life’s mission.
And then, October 7th, 2023 — the day the disengagement came full circle. Terrorists pouring out of Gaza, crossing into Israel with maps and murder lists. Over 1,200 of our people slaughtered in a single day — babies, mothers, grandparents, teenagers at a music festival. Hundreds dragged into Gaza as hostages. All from the land we “gave” them.
I’ve stood in those communities since that day — Be’eri, Kfar Aza, Nir Oz. I’ve seen bullet holes in kindergarten walls. I’ve walked through burned-out homes still smelling of smoke. I’ve spoken to survivors who hid in closets while their neighbors were butchered.
When I remember August 15th, I don’t just see soldiers evacuating families. I see a nation convincing itself that surrender was moral, that retreat was noble, that peace could be made with those who dream of your annihilation.
Twenty years later, I live in the country that made that choice. And I live with the reality it created. The disengagement wasn’t just a mistake — it was a warning. A warning ignored.
We cannot afford to repeat it — not in Judea and Samaria, not anywhere. The world may pressure, our leaders may waver, but we have the scars — and the graves — to prove what happens when we trade land for promises.
In 2005, I watched from afar, powerless. In 2025, I’m here. I’m not powerless. And I will not be silent.