In Petach Tikva, Maayan Bracha, Efrat Bracha, and Yael Aframian, all 12 years old, put together a team to help Tohar, 8; Ori-Avraham, 5; and Eitan, 2, while their parents were essential personnel in the war. The rearguard and civil society played a fundamental role in the absence of the state in the face of the chaos of the first days after Oct. 7.

Magali Druscovich

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Building Solidarity on Israel’s ‘Home Front’

Portraits of ordinary citizens caring for each other in extraordinary ways in the year since Oct. 7

by
Magali Druscovich
October 07, 2024
In Petach Tikva, Maayan Bracha, Efrat Bracha, and Yael Aframian, all 12 years old, put together a team to help Tohar, 8; Ori-Avraham, 5; and Eitan, 2, while their parents were essential personnel in the war. The rearguard and civil society played a fundamental role in the absence of the state in the face of the chaos of the first days after Oct. 7.

Magali Druscovich

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This article is part of Hamas’ War on Israel.
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The principle of arevut—the idea that members of the People of Israel are responsible for each other—is established in the Talmud. This does not mean a lack of interest in non-Jews, but the understanding that solidarity and mutual responsibility are concentric circles. Feeling responsible for my people, I learn solidarity with all of humanity.

The concept of arevut is based on the fact that the People of Israel is not just a group of people, but a unit, a singular entity with almost metaphysical value. In fact, the people are compared to a single person, where each of the members are the organs. Arevut is not mere responsibility, it is an eternal covenant.

Arevut is what emerged on Oct. 7 when civil society in Israel came out to defend itself in the absence of state institutions: Close and unknown people found themselves immersed in unimaginable situations. Over the course of 2024, I have taken portraits of many of these people, all across Israel.

Rami grabbed his car and rescued 35 kids from the Nova music festival. Kathy received 1,200 children evacuated from the south and the north at the Kfar Maccabiah hotel. Gabriel went out to fight against the terrorists to defend his kibbutz. Noam, only 18 years old, drove south without knowing what was happening, evading a hurricane of bullets to save the lives of Mijal and many others. There were also people who set out to help those affected, such as the thousands of Israelis who donated their time organizing donations or cooking for soldiers or refugee relatives; those who set out to confront antisemitism on social media; the activists who appeared on television to educate about the conflict; communities in the diaspora organizing events in support; and philanthropists rolling up their sleeves to confront institutional chaos.

There are also those who wanted to help and were murdered—like Shaili’s father, who died while fighting the terrorists in the Kfar Aza kibbutz.

These people were all part of the “home front,” a front that needs soldiers but also neighbors, citizens helping each other. The mothers of young adults murdered in Nova found refuge in other mothers in the same situation; Ruty, mother of Iair and Eitan, two kidnapped boys, found help in Dikla from the social service and in Dani, a friend of her sons, who does not let go of her hand.

While making portraits for this photo essay, I met heroic people and people who wish they hadn’t done anything heroic. I was with people who want the kidnapped people to return and with people who do not want to negotiate peace. A 19-year-old girl told me that for two months, she had four funerals a day and she had to decide which of her friends or neighbors to go to. I was with people who buried their relatives in a box containing only three teeth. I spoke with people from the left and the right, people who went to the demonstrations before Oct. 7 and people who began to get involved in politics after Oct. 7 because of what happened. I saw a wounded and resilient country, people continuing with their daily lives and many young survivors who do not know how to move forward. I talked to people who have diverse stories, different opinions, and changing goals. I asked them all the same question: What is going to happen? And I always got the same answer: “I don’t know.” Coming from Argentina, where we live in a state of permanent uncertainty, I have never seen so many people make exactly the same perplexed face when faced with a question. But the stories I collected while creating these photos show that from the uncertainty, a renewed sense of peoplehood—of arevut—can emerge.

Magali Druscovich is a photographer and journalist from Argentina focusing on stories about human rights, youth, and health, exploring trauma and resilience.