JERUSALEM: There's a saying among us videojournalists: May the news stay far from your home. But on Saturday, Oct. 7, it came terrifyingly close to my hometown.
While I live in Jerusalem, where I work as a cameraman for The Associated Press, I was raised in Ofakim, a city a half-hour drive from the border with Gaza. My mother, parents-in-law and siblings still call it home. I met my wife there.
It was a tight-knit and safe community, made up of some 13,000 working-class Jews of North African descent. Everybody knew everybody.
When hundreds of militants poured over the border from the Gaza Strip into southern Israel that Saturday, I was staying with my wife's parents, marking the Jewish holiday of Simchat Torah, a jubilant festival that will from now on be remembered as the country's darkest day.
We were awakened by air raid sirens at 6:30 a.m. The smell of hamin, a traditional slow-cooked Jewish meat and bean stew, had begun to fill the house. My wife, her parents and I rushed to the protected room, not thinking too much of it. Ofakim, like many other communities in southern Israel, has for the last two decades been the target of rocket attacks from Gaza. This all felt routine.
Many of the older houses in the community do not have a safe room — it used to be that whenever the sirens sounded, you would run to the communal shelter. Luckily, my wife's parents had built their own safe room five years ago, roughly 3 by 4 meters (10 feet by 13 feet). We had no food or water in it — just a double bed, a mattress, and a TV.
But as the morning wore on, we realized it was anything but a normal day. As we scrolled our phones endlessly from the safe room, we started grasping what awaited Ofakim. Militants had overrun the front-line kibbutzim, or farming villages, along the border, shooting people in their homes and setting some on fire and taking dozens captive.
By noon, I decided to step outside for a moment. But I heard gunfire from terrifyingly close and headed back for the safe room.
We waited anxiously inside the protected room for hours. When we got hungry, we snuck out cautiously to the kitchen to bring in bowls of hamin. Uncertainty reigned and our only source of information was the accounts of the horror from countless residents coming in through Israeli media, which stoked our fear of what might happen to our community.
We passed the time watching TV, reading the news on our phone, communicating with loved ones on WhatsApp chat groups. Stuck in a small room together, we began to argue about politics — why hadn't the government protected us?
I wanted to leave, to check on my mother, my daughter. But my wife's father told me that if I dared step out of the house, into the area where the militants roamed, he would tie me to the bed.
We didn't yet understand the bigger picture. Like other Israelis, we were caught off guard, disoriented by the total lack of information about what was going on outside our door and terrorized by the fog of the unknown.
By the afternoon, I learned how truly personal the attack had become. Yaniv Zohar, a former AP cameraman I had worked alongside for years, was killed in his home in Nahal Oz, a communal settlement along the Gaza border, along with his wife and two daughters, aged 18 and 20. I have since learned that yet another friend and cameraman, Roei Dan, was killed in Kfar Azza, also along the Gaza border. Roei's wife was also killed, and his 3-year-old daughter was taken hostage by Hamas.
I couldn't bear sitting inside anymore. My mother's home was a few hundred meters (yards) from the battle with militants and I needed to check in on her. My 15-year-old daughter was staying at my brother's house and other relatives, among them a 4-month-old baby, were also near the fighting.
So I set out, traveling nearly a kilometer (a little more than half a mile) to see my mother. I had been in communication with her through text, but I needed to make sure she was safe.
I also couldn't stay away from the news, no matter how much my family urged me to. By late afternoon, I ventured out with my camera and found the aftermath of a battlefield: white jeeps driven in by the militants on the side of the road, and terrified residents whose homes were pocked with bullet holes.
My coverage felt incredibly personal. The jeeps were left in a spot where Ofakim residents usually gather to watch the sunset. People I've known since my teens let me film their bullet-ridden homes. A good friend of my mother's is in shock after militants shot dead her next-door neighbors. These were the images of my once sleepy hometown hours after the assault.
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The military had been nowhere for much of that day. Local police and firefighters were left to use their scant means to fight the militants who marauded through the city and are believed to have killed at least 50 people before they were routed or killed.
Our lives have in many ways been upended.
In the aftermath of the violence, my sister left to the U.S. with her visiting daughter, son-in-law and baby granddaughter. My adult daughter, who lives in southern Israel, fled from the non-stop barrage of rockets to the remote Israeli city of Eilat.
I returned to Jerusalem the morning after the attack, my mother and in-laws now staying at my home indefinitely. Since then, I've covered an endless stream of funerals and watched as my former colleague Yaniv was laid to rest.
I don't have a foreign citizenship. I am Israeli and like everyone else in this country, I am left to pick up the pieces of the vast destruction, confront the national trauma inflicted by the attack and conjure up ways to keep moving forward.
My hometown will never be the same.