By Nina Afremov 
Development and Annual Event Coordinator

March 13, 2025

Just two weeks ago, I stared out the window of the bus on a rare, drizzly morning in Israel. The group and I were traveling into the Gaza Envelope. Highway railings were aligned with banners and posters bearing the faces of the kidnapped. Many cars were adorned with yellow ribbons and bumper stickers either commemorating fallen soldiers or spreading awareness of the Hostage Forum’s mission to “Bring Them Home Now!” When you’re in Israel, you will constantly see reminders of the war and the hostages. To bear witness to these reminders in the south, however, is to feel the weight of the absence of all who were lost and remain so.  

As we drove, I was listening to a recording of Jordan B. Peterson’s latest book We Who Wrestle with God: Perceptions of the Divine. In the very first chapter, the brilliant, and at times controversial, psychologist and philosopher illustrates the similarities between humans and the butterfly and their capability to undergo tremendous transformations. “Human beings grow and develop as they mature–assuming they mature–in a manner nearly as radical as that of the winged insect. . . It is thus far from irrelevant that the Greek word for psyche (ψυχή)–the root from which the word psychology is derived; the signifier for the human spirit or soul– literally means butterfly.” What most struck me as I further listened was that both humans and butterflies are capable of astounding feats of navigation unlike almost any other species. In my instance, I had just made the journey to the land of Israel for the very first time.

Like a monarch flying south for the winter, I embarked on a great journey in February. I was a participant of Minneapolis Jewish Federation’s “Tikvatenu 3: Volunteer & Solidarity Mission to Israel.” The main purpose of this experience, which has now thrice been hosted since 10/7, is to offer support to partner communities overseas as the war and unrest resulting from the deadliest day for Jews since the Holocaust continue to threaten the stability of this small country. After 25 years of anticipation, I boarded the plane knowing I would come back as a different person.  

The bus slowed as we arrived at our destination: Minneapolis’ sister kibbutz – Kibbutz Holit. Nestled on the border of Gaza and Egypt, the lusciously green Kibbutz Holit was once home to orange, lemon, and mango orchards as well as 200 families. Now, five people remain to rebuild and replant after masses of vegetation were destroyed during the ground invasion and, most devastatingly, 15% of the population was murdered by terrorists. We came to help replant and listen to their stories. 

As we descended from the bus, one of the first things I saw was a roadside bomb shelter on the edge of the parking lot. Unlike every other shelter we encountered on our drive, the sight of this one brought a sense of levity, beauty, and wonder. In both vibrant and pastel shades, someone painted the silhouette of a woman riding her bike and leaving soaring butterflies in her wake. I snapped a photo while wondering what the difference is between a coincidence and a miracle.

We arrived at Kibbutz Holit on erev Tu Bishvat, the eve of a holiday to honor the earth and Jewish agricultural laws, to plant new trees, to start a new life. As I dug my plow into the earth for the first time to rake the fertilizer with the soil before planting the seedling, I imagined the Jewish pioneers who came to this land on the turnstyle of a new century and with an ancient Jewish dream newly realized by the Zionist movement. I crouched on the earth, unafraid to dirty my gloves and sneakers. I buried the roots and the weight of that moment was not lost on me as a butterfly flew over my right shoulder.  

One of our gracious hosts came to each of us with an arrangement of dried fruits. I plucked a date from the platter and peeled the candy floss skin from the seed and savored its sweetness as I looked off into the distance trying to understand the stampede of hatred that came from the horizon only sixteen months prior. The moment was bittersweet. 

Several days later, I found myself in the center of Tel Aviv attending a demonstration for the missing. On the Shabbat morning of February 15, 2025, I stood before the stage and screen at Hostage Square to witness the release and return of three civilian hostages – 36-year-old dual U.S.-Israeli citizen Sagui Dekel-Chen, 29-year-old dual Russian-Israeli citizen Alexander Trupanov, and 46-year-old dual Argentinian-Israeli Yair Horn. Among my community members from the Twin Cities and our brothers and sisters in Israel, we stood both teary and cheering as an ocean of white and blue flags bearing the yellow ribbon in the center of the Magan David rippled. We had been waiting with bated breath for them to come home, and we still do for the 59 who remain captive at the time I am writing this post.

I wandered through the square. There were white tents for shelter from the sun where passersbys could meet family members of hostages and hear their stories. There also stands a mock Hamas tunnel. It takes minutes to walk through, but feels like a lifetime. The air inside was frigid despite the 70-degree sun outside; speakers exude the sound of rockets and explosions. Adorning the walls, you will find stickers of the 800 fallen IDF soldiers claimed in this war. You will find posters of hostages and messages of hope written in sharpie and paint. I gazed at a poster of the missing Bibas children only a week before they returned to Israel in coffins. May their memory be for a blessing. At the end of the tunnel perched on a built-in shelf, you will find an illuminated sign bearing a message from the Torah in the original Hebrew: “We are the light.”

That Saturday night, I had a free evening and a wanderer’s mind. I decided to walk to Dizengoff Square on my own. I needed to clear my head while also familiarizing myself with the city. When I arrived at the famous fountain contained in the circular formation of the center park, I was unsurprised to see it had been turned into a memorial for those who lost their lives at the Nova Music Festival. Like I said earlier, you cannot turn anywhere in Israel without seeing constant reminders of 10/7. I walked the circumference of the fountain slowly and gazed at each shrine. The fountain was lined with framed photos of the dead, stuffed animals, red poppy flowers, yellow ribbons, and candles. Some candles had long ago burned to nothing. Others were freshly lit, illuminating the victims’ framed faces. It broke my heart to think of who came to light candles on that Saturday evening. Family? Friends? Do they come every week? Everyday?

I saw the faces of young, beautiful Jews who only wished to dance in the desert that Shabbat morning. I witnessed the flashes of friends I will never make, conversations and laughter I will never share in a world where there are so few degrees of separation. I made the profound and brutal realization almost a year and a half ago that there is little difference between me and the people who died on 10/7. Fundamentally, the only difference between them and us is that they were in the south of Israel that day. When I commemorate my Israeli peers who died, I am reminded of my peers in the USA who call their deaths “resistance.” I think of my peers who told me I’m a religious zealot for grieving and advocating for the hostages. In Israel, though, we grieve together. While on Tikvatenu 3, I needed the support of Israelis as much as they needed my support. My grief was accepted in Israel and met with a unique compassion only found between people who share something great.

Having spent most of my career at JCRC working during an acutely anti-Zionist climate, it felt like destiny to finally visit the Holy Land, especially under existential threat. Israel will never be the same as it was before 10/7; that unbearable day is etched into history and the Jewish consciousness forever. I understood I was a changing person in a changing country; I am still changing and mining meaning.  

This blog post was the featured staff column for the March 2025 Gesher (‘Bridge’ in Hebrew) – JCRC’s monthly email newsletter.
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