Just days before the Israel-Hamas ceasefire broke down as negotiations came to a dead end and the IDF resumed its airstrikes in Gaza, the europeanconservative.com traveled to Israel to get a firsthand account of the country’s situation between war and peace, the nation’s reconstruction following the attacks of October 7th, and the morale of the friends and families of many who are still hostages of Hamas five hundred days later.
The attack of October 7, 2023
That day, at 6:29 AM, the first Hamas members breached the border after blinding Israeli defenses with drones that destroyed automatic defense systems and other surveillance devices. Chaos was immediate: hundreds of Khazam rockets were launched into Israeli territory, and the Iron Dome was overwhelmed. More than 5,000 terrorists crossed the border at over 120 points. The Israeli army was blind; Hamas knew precisely what to do, how to do it, where to do it, and when to do it. They cut off communication lines and created skirmishes at key locations to prevent troops from the nearest base from counterattacking or even reaching the front lines.
This allowed Hamas to cover the 20-minute drive from the border to the site of the Nova Festival massacre, where 364 people were murdered and 40 were kidnapped. The young attendees were dancing, barely registering the alarm sounds. By the time some noticed the first terrorists arriving on motor-powered paragliders, it was too late. They were hunted down like animals gunned down in bathrooms, behind refrigerators, and inside trash containers. Some women had their breasts cut off as trophies. These are the images that have circled the world multiple times.
Today, the site is an improvised cemetery created by friends and family. Spontaneous. Each wooden stake driven into the ground carries a photo and a flag. Some soldiers and visitors approach me curiously, asking why I am there and whether I will report on this “as CNN did.” The way the media covered Israel and its victims, with mass protests against Jews even after more than 1,000 people were slaughtered in just a few hours, is something they will never forget.
The place that suffered the worst devastation in the first hours was Kibbutz Kfar Aza. Terrorists stormed the self-managed community, massacring everyone in their path—men, women, and children. Those who did not resist too much were kidnapped. Those who resisted were killed in cold blood. Every kibbutz has security shelters in each building and an armory with a few M-16 rifles and limited ammunition. None of it was enough to withstand the attack that day. Every protocol failed—their own and the army’s.
Out of 950 people in Kfar Aza, only 30 have returned. Visiting it feels like walking through a ghost town, if not for the soldiers patrolling the area and the few who have come back to try and rebuild, as best they can, what remains of their generational home. Kibbutzim are fully self-managed communities based on socialist-Marxist ideas from the 1960s and ’70s. Today, ideology has faded, leaving only an instinct for survival.
Rocket attacks are nothing new. Between 2001 and 2023, more than 30,000 rockets were launched from Gaza into the area surrounding the kibbutz and beyond. The Iron Dome intercepts most of them, but even the ones that hit the ground cause damage. And as seen in the latest escalation with Iran, it has its limits.
Meeting the few survivors here reinforces the importance of roots—living in the present without forgetting the past. Everyone here grew up together, lived together, was happy together, suffered together, and, in many cases, died together. This is something that heterogeneous, Westernized societies struggle to replicate.
Chen, a woman in her 50s and mother of one, was not there that day, but she coordinated remotely with her 80-year-old father, who had to run and hide in a security room as best he could. Miraculously, he survived. Sixty-four of her fellow kibbutz members did not make it past the first few hours. Chen doesn’t know what the future holds. She believes both peoples are destined to coexist but are “trapped in time until the remaining hostages return.” She was a video editor in the IDF intelligence services, and her gaze reflects both the passage of time and a determined will to resist.
Orit, another woman in her 50s and mother of four, grew up in Kfar Aza alongside Chen. She was also absent that day. Hamas killed her ex-husband and her brother-in-law. She has no hope for peace after October 7th:
If it’s them or us, let it be them. Right now, I can only think about myself and my children after they murdered my family members and others from the community.
Sachar, also in his 50s, lives in one of the houses on higher ground. From his rooftop, he can monitor a vast stretch of land. He miraculously survived and still doesn’t fully understand how. He was at home with his mother when he saw what appeared to be IDF soldiers. He stepped outside to ask for help, but years of training and experience made him realize that something was off—the supposed soldiers were not carrying the standard-issue U.S. M-16 rifle but the iconic Soviet AK-47. They were terrorists disguised as Israeli soldiers. He managed to drop to the ground before they saw him and hid.
He is one of the most peace-oriented people who have returned to the kibbutz. He is tired of suffering and years of bloodshed. “This government will change sooner or later, and a new time will come,” he says, staring into the horizon toward the Green Line that separates Israel from Gaza. In the distance, a vehicle moves back and forth in the middle of the silence. Behind it, a city turned into a refugee camp. Next to him, fluttering in the wind, a torn Israeli flag.
This is the stark reality of Israel after the ceasefire: a country that continues to rebuild itself, with wounds still fresh and an uncertain future ahead. A country marked by resilience but also by deep internal fractures. A nation that faces external threats while grappling with its contradictions. A people who, despite everything, keep moving forward, driven by history, faith, and survival.
Indeed, Israel is a unique country, a blend of East and West, unlike anything else in the region. This becomes apparent even before boarding the plane, which will traverse much of Europe and the Mediterranean for almost five hours before landing at Ben Sharon Airport in Tel Aviv.
Several Jewish families with many children are on the flight. One woman in particular catches my attention as she gently rocks a baby just a few months old. The baby’s enormous blue eyes scrutinize everything around him but seem only capable of processing the gazes of the passengers, to which he reacts with amusing expressions.
That image brings to mind Israel’s birthrate statistic: 3.0 children per woman—the highest among all countries considered “Western.” In contrast, the European Union average is just 1.53. Statistics may distort reality, but the difference is undeniable: Israel’s fertility rate is nearly three times that of most European countries. This is no coincidence, and at the same time, it poses a dilemma. On the one hand, Israel exists in a constant state of war, making generational replacement more of a necessity than a choice. Every citizen is required to serve in the military: three years for men and two for women. They are citizen soldiers, much like the warrior monks who once existed in Europe.
Everyone must serve—except for one group: the Orthodox Jews. This creates significant internal tension. “Since 1948, the Orthodox Jewish population has grown from 5% to nearly 15%,” explains Juan Caldés, a representative of EIPA. “The problem is that they form a segment of the population that does not work, does not pay taxes, and is not required to serve in the army.”
Women in these ultra-Orthodox communities have an even higher birth rate, with more than six children per woman. Out of a population of 9.7 million, the Orthodox community represents nearly two million people—a figure that continues to grow. In recent years, the government has attempted to reform the law to include this religious demographic in military service, but resistance has been fierce. Clashes between police and members of this community have, at times, escalated into violent riots.
A city of contrasts
On the way from the airport to my hotel on the beach in Tel Aviv, I passed the site where Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin was assassinated in 1995. His killer was an ultra-Orthodox radical, Yigal Amir. The reason? Rabin was negotiating a peace process with the Palestinians that did not sit well with the most religious citizens. A reminder that Israel’s internal conflict is almost as complex as its external one.
Ultra-Orthodox Jews do not even recognize the State of Israel. They believe the diaspora is divine punishment for the sins of the Jewish people and that the very existence of Israel is a mistake that God will punish sooner or later. This deepens the fractures between a religious and a secular society. It’s as if a group resembling the U.S. Amish lived alongside another resembling a high-tech, avant-garde Miami. The difference is that they coexist within 22,145 km²—a territory smaller than El Salvador or Belgium.
Mexicans say their country is “a land of contrasts,” but this also applies to Israel—socially, politically, and in its urbanism too. Tel Aviv is a mix of New York, Miami, and Iraq, a Blade Runner-like setting on the Mediterranean shores. The closer one gets to the beach, the more apparent this fusion becomes. Alongside ultra-modern skyscrapers and cranes signaling the future remain old socialist-era blocks from the ’60s and ’70s, with worn-out facades and exposed electrical cables dangling in the open air, much like any working-class Mediterranean neighborhood.
Everything changed with Benjamin Netanyahu’s rise to power in 1996. “He has as many followers as detractors, but no one can deny that he elevated Israel to another level,” says Caldés. With Netanyahu, the “Start-Up Nation” emerged. Today, Israel leads in military technology, artificial intelligence, and cybersecurity. The country receives $3.8 billion annually in U.S. military aid but has skillfully turned that investment into strategic development.
The healthcare system is a mix of public and private, similar to European models. I had the opportunity to visit Sheba Medical Center, a vast medical complex employing 11,000 professionals, including doctors, nurses, and administrative staff. Its parking lot accommodates 25,000 vehicles.
Each year, 12,000 children are born in this hospital. Every child in the Jewish community is seen as a gift, and everyone is involved in each other’s care—reminiscent of Mediterranean societies no more than 40 years ago. Tamar Hermann, sociologist and Senior Research Fellow at The Israel Democracy Institute notes:
The Jewish community, wherever it is—whether left-wing or right-wing—has a deeply ingrained sense of unity due to our history. The family is the true nuclear structure.
The hospital operates under a dual-use system for both civilian and military needs. It has the city’s largest helipad, which is used for civilian transport and transporting wounded soldiers from the front. Thanks to the hospital’s logistical coordination with the state, any combat injury that is not immediately fatal has a 99% survival rate, according to institutional data.
Beyond the usual hospital facilities, Sheba Medical Center includes a specialized war injury ward above the geriatric block, two rehabilitation wings, and two small hotels. It is currently constructing a housing complex for doctors and nurses. Meanwhile, the hospital’s research division is developing numerous AI programs for healthcare applications. It is one of the world’s leading medical research centers, ranked eighth globally. The cost exceeds $1 billion annually and is publicly managed—an example of the excellence that can be achieved with the correct management.
Perhaps the jewel of the complex is Safra Children’s Hospital—not just for its work but for what is little known to the general public. For a long time, this hospital treated Palestinian patients from both the West Bank and Gaza without issue. Hamas funded treatments for many of these children. How? Through international aid money received by Gaza. Dr. Moshe Ashkenazi, Deputy Director of Safra Children’s Hospital, clarifies:
Our job is to save lives—we leave politics to the politicians. We are an interfaith team of Jews, Muslims, and Christians, and we must give our best.
Ashkenazi is not naive. He acknowledges that tensions rise among the staff at such moments as the October 7th attack or the ensuing war and require significant team efforts. But the mission is the mission.
Ashkenazi even dares to say something that seems to be an open secret among medical professionals: “We have also treated Hamas terrorists here before.” “It’s not uncommon to see a terrorist and his victim lying in adjacent beds,” notes a colleague in the room. Without a doubt, the hospital is a special place.
But everything changed with 2023’s October 7th attack. That day traumatized not only the Jewish people but also many Palestinians who opposed Hamas’ rule, as well as Israeli Arabs caught in between.
With the ceasefire ending—following the refusal of Hamas to return Israeli hostages—the trauma looks set to continue. europeanconservative.com will continue reporting from Israel in the days ahead.
