I traveled to Kibbutz Hatzerim in the Negev, where the displaced community of Kibbutz Be’eri will be living for the next two to three years.
Rows of temporary houses stretch across the sand, a harsh yet fitting backdrop for a community forever changed. Residents of Kibbutz Be’eri, who were relocated to the North and to the Dead Sea, are finally reunited in one place for the first time since the Oct. 7 Hamas mega-atrocity. They are a broken community, with so many lives lost, trying to find a new sense of home.
Thomas Hand greeted me upon my arrival, but he informed me that his daughter Emily, who had been taken captive by Hamas at age eight and released last November, wouldn’t be joining us. She was attending her extra-curricular activities for the first time since their move, and I felt a pang of disappointment; I had hoped to photograph them together.
Thomas and Emily Hand
Thomas, whom I knew from our time together in Poland on the March of the Living earlier this year, asked about my film and interview crew. I smiled and said, “It’s just me this time. I’m here to listen and tell your story through my photographs.”
We sat down to talk, and I started with a simple, heartfelt question: “How are you?” Thomas paused for a moment, reflecting, and then said, “This is different from the other interviews I’ve done.” He was very comfortable conversing to me, since we had spent time together earlier in the year during the March of the Living in Poland, where we built a natural rapport. I hadn’t come to interview him formally; I was there to take photographs of him and Emily.
I reassured him, “It is different. I want to know how you are doing.”
“For the first time,” he said, “I can honestly say I’m doing wonderfully. We’re settled for the first time since Oct. 7. But it’s strange. Every time I walk outside and talk to my neighbors and friends, my mind races, ticking away as I try to figure out who they’ve lost, who among their loved ones was killed. It’s as if I’m constantly counting, constantly remembering.”
We spoke for half an hour, our conversation punctuated by the soft glow of the sunset reflecting off the sand outside the window. I could see the orange hues and knew it was time to capture the moment. I photographed Thomas on the newly built porch, a structure the government had constructed for the family. Later, we moved into Emily’s room, which doubles as the safe room. Thomas pointed out the door’s faulty locking mechanism, something that clearly troubled him.
“It’s ridiculous,” he said, half-amused. “It doesn’t even lock from the inside. What’s the point of a bulletproof door if you can’t lock it?” Despite the imperfections, there was relief in his voice – grateful for the safety and the space, yet aware of how much had been lost.
When I asked him if he had been back to Kibbutz Be’eri, he sighed. “Yes, I’ve been back a couple of times. I took Emily with me, but we did it gradually. I took her to her best friend’s house – it had been burned down. Then I took her to Raya’s place, from where she was kidnapped, and finally to our own house. Bullet holes, yes, but otherwise untouched. I’ve spent nights there alone – it’s eerie. I lock my door now. I never used to.”
We shared laughter between the clicks of my camera, and though the conversation was brief, the weight of our words hung in the air. I excused myself to head to the bathroom before meeting the awaiting cab I had arranged, disappointed that I hadn’t been able to photograph Emily.
AS I STEPPED out of the bathroom, I heard a voice. Emily had arrived. Her presence filled the room. I was immediately struck by her beauty: tall, healthy, with striking blue eyes and pale, smooth skin. I handed her some cookies I’d brought from Tel Aviv, which won her over.
She agreed to be photographed, and I quickly told the taxi driver to wait as we retreated to her bedroom for the photo session. She danced on the bed, doing cartwheels while Thomas sat nearby, watching her with an expression of peace I hadn’t yet seen. His daughter – home, safe, happy, dancing like a bird set free.
A year ago, Emily was dragged into a car full of terrorists, her future uncertain, her life teetering between freedom and captivity. Now, as I watched her cartwheel across the bed, it was as though those chains had fallen away. She was still a child, yes, but there was something remarkable about her energy – wild and pure, as though the weight of those dark days had lifted, if only for a moment.
While Thomas didn’t say I couldn’t interview her, I didn’t want to pursue that. My priority was to ensure they both felt at ease, particularly Emily, since she’s just a child.
I stayed longer than planned. We kicked off our shoes and moved outside to the porch and the sandy expanse beyond. Emily danced for me again, barefoot in the sand, as I sat and captured the moment. Thomas smoked a cigarette, quietly watching his daughter, a picture of calm and contentment.
Emily sat beside me, and I handed her the camera. Barefoot in the sand, we switched roles, and she eagerly began to take photos of me as I danced, much like she had moments earlier. Laughter filled the air as she captured each moment with an effortless joy, her excitement behind the camera as natural and free as her movements in front of it.
Thomas looked on with an intensity that spoke volumes. “Family, all family,” he had told me earlier when I asked what gets him through the lowest moments. “That’s what pulls me out of the lows – Emily, of course.”
As I left that day, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something larger was happening here. Emily’s freedom wasn’t just her own – it was a symbol for all of us, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there is always light. And though the wounds of Oct. 7 will never fully heal, in the freedom of a child dancing in the sand, there is hope. For Emily. For Be’eri. For Israel.