Instead of spending a relaxing time in Germany, a group of young people are traveling to Israel: They are part of a volunteer and solidarity trip to Israel organized by Young Christians on the Side of Israel (JCSI) . Simon Schauer, a volunteer leader of JCSI, was among them.
By Simon Schauer
This is my ninth time in Israel, but my first since October 7, 2023. So I'm curious to see how the country has changed. Jerusalem already feels empty; there are hardly any tourists. We aren't pursuing any tourist goals either. We're traveling with JCSI as volunteers to demonstrate our solidarity with Israel in a very practical way. And to really get stuck in: as harvest workers on large farms and as gardeners in kibbutzim near the Gaza Strip. This trip, which we Solidariut (סולידריות, Hebrew for solidarity), is turning into a genuine journey of encounter with a wide variety of people.
Long-term perspective instead of disaster tourism
One of them is Merle, an Islamic scholar and journalist with Israelnetz, who has lived in Jerusalem for eleven years. She spoke with released hostages early on and maintains contact with soldiers, relatives of the fallen, and Hamas supporters. This allows her to give us deep insights into the events and reactions. Our focus is particularly on the reporting of international and German media. Because what appears in publications like Tagesschau, Süddeutsche Zeitung, or Spiegel doesn't necessarily reflect the reality on the ground. Merle encourages us to be ambassadors: to share our experiences of Israel and pass on these stories and encounters.
I wonder how this can be sustainable. Because I'm experiencing Israel in a completely different reality. Before the trip, I was often asked, with a frown, if Israel wasn't far too dangerous. And now, on a warm evening, I'm sitting on the rooftop terrace of a hostel in the heart of Jerusalem with a cold beer. There's nowhere else I'd rather be. What a monumental task it is to bring this feeling, this truth, back to Germany. I consider it important and faith-strengthening to experience the Holy Land personally, and I can only recommend that every Christian travel there at least once. But terrorism has managed to make Christians postpone this experience or give it up altogether.
Merle is delighted and very grateful that we've come. When I almost apologize for only arriving now, after seven months, she firmly disagrees: "We need staying power now, not disaster tourism."
Not just a drop in the ocean
The next day, we meet Dvir for lunch. The 23-year-old survived a gunshot wound to the neck while serving as a soldier in Gaza in November. It's a remarkable story, which the reserve medic also recounts in his podcast, "Heroes of Israel 24." He's happy we've come and is excited about what we'll be doing. Dvir tells us how his ancestors survived the Holocaust and the inhumane experiments of Dr. Mengele. What his family endured in just a few generations is almost unimaginable.
As a German, it particularly affects me: What would I have done in the Third Reich? The question I find much easier to answer is: What am I doing now, during the greatest Jewish catastrophe of my lifetime? At least now, after October 7th, I can offer practical help to the Jewish people, planting flowers and trimming hedges. And yet, in the face of all this unbearable suffering, it seems like a drop in the ocean.
But then I look at Dvir again, see the bullet scar on his neck, and look into his eyes. They are kind and steady. Despite having seen so much horror, they still look to the future with joy. No, we are not just a drop in the ocean here. Because with our presence, the people of Israel experience that they still have friends in the world.
Young, from Germany, and Christians to boot!
The next day, while harvesting basil, we meet a retired Dutchman. We get to talking, and he tells us he's Jewish. He's surprised that we're so young, from Germany, and also Christian. He's very pleased, because in the Netherlands he can no longer openly wear his Star of David necklace. Antisemitism has become too rampant since October 7th. But now in Israel, he doesn't need to hide it. He doesn't need to hide; he can be completely free.
During the coffee break, he tells us that all his grandparents survived the Holocaust. Some fled Berlin for the Netherlands in 1933 and then to Switzerland in 1942. Others fled Poland. I feel a pang of sadness: another descendant of Holocaust survivors. I think about the fact that, theoretically, my great-grandparents could have tried to kill his grandparents. Then we're both kneeling again in the Israeli desert sand, harvesting basil. This alternation between utter horror and mundane everyday life is a recurring theme throughout our entire trip.
Living with the new reality
We arranged to meet 21-year-old Rotem the following afternoon. He's the son of the farmers for whom we'd prepared pineapple plants that morning, and he took us in his jeep into the desert, near the Egyptian border. From the hilltop, we had a good view of the neighboring country. He carried his machine gun slung over his shoulder. He was cheerful, talkative, and seemed thoughtful when he thought about the time ahead. During the week, Rotem commanded young recruits, and on weekends he helped on his parents' farm, which was suffering from a shortage of harvest workers. In a few weeks, he would be deployed back to the Gaza Strip, this time with a group of soldiers fresh out of basic training.
Rotem's girlfriend is also there and tells us that she had actually planned to go to the Nova Festival on the morning of October 7th. Had she gone the night before, she might not have survived. Many of her friends were there – and some were murdered by Hamas terrorists.
"You are our stepsisters and stepsisters"
In the evening, we said goodbye to Tomer and Romi, our Israeli contacts. The two 18-year-olds are currently doing their voluntary social year in Nitzana between graduating from high school and starting their military service. They are happy that we are so committed to Israel, even though we are not Jewish. The fact that we came to Israel and helped with the harvest in the desert heat, when we could be having a wonderful time in Germany, is very special to them. As we parted, they assured us that we had become Israelis to them. "You are our stepsisters and stepsisters," Tomer emphasized.
It is in these moments that I realize again why we do all this. It's not about how much basil we harvest. It's about showing solidarity and standing by our Jewish brothers and sisters in difficult times.
A defiant kibbutz amidst the killing
The next day we drove to Kibbutz Mefalsim, which lies two kilometers from the Gaza Strip. At the entrance gate, we saw bullet holes from October 7th in the facade of a house. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and a rooster crowed far too often. Every now and then we heard a helicopter. We planted flowers. A car stopped, and the driver asked where we were from. "From Germany... and we're Christians." The man could hardly believe it and was so impressed that he insisted on taking a picture of us before driving on.
When the few kibbutz members who have returned see us, they smile. They're happy we're here. A young man brings us water and thanks us. Only a few have returned; most families are still evacuated. So the gardening has been neglected, which we're now taking care of.
The kibbutz was attacked on October 7, but the terrorists were unable to penetrate it, so no one was killed. The residents had their weapons at home and were able to defend themselves. They climbed onto their rooftops and fired over the kibbutz fence at the terrorists, while simultaneously escorting fleeing Nova Festival attendees over their fence and into the safety of their homes. A gardener told us that despite the numerous rescue operations the day after the massacre, the area around Mefalsim was littered with bodies—those of Nova Festival participants who hadn't made it.
The horror of the Nova Festival
In the afternoon, we will drive to the Nova Festival grounds ourselves. Here and in the surrounding area, 364 people were slaughtered, burned, raped, and shot on October 7th. Forty of the approximately 4,000 attendees were taken hostage to the Gaza Strip.
It's the most harrowing moment of our trip. It feels like walking through a concentration camp memorial. Only this time, it wasn't 80 years ago—but just seven months. The lump in my throat grows huge. The pain of the place is palpable. Tears stream down my face, even though I didn't know anyone here. This horrific massacre leaves no one unmoved. Photos of the murdered hang on 364 posts, surrounded by Israeli flags and accompanied by personal belongings or letters. Why? Why were 4,000 young people celebrating here attacked? Probably simply because they were Jewish. Ultimately, that's the reason. Perhaps it's the pain of God that I feel here, the pain that makes me so crushingly sad.
We drive along Route 232 several times, the same road that was occupied by terrorists on October 7th. Road signs like Re'im, Be'eri, Alumim, Nahal Oz, and Kfar Azza flash by. A queasy feeling washes over us. Each of these names, after that Black Shabbat, represents unimaginable horror. We pass bus stops with bomb shelters, where bullet holes are still visible. In the distance, we hear the thunder of Israeli artillery in Gaza.
Rocket alarms as constant companions
The thought of a sudden rocket alert is a constant companion. As the driver, I always keep the car window slightly open so I can hear the sirens and stop immediately in an emergency. Then I'd have to get out quickly, lie flat on the floor, and protect my head with my hands for ten minutes. Our rocket alert app suddenly notifies us of an alarm in Tel Aviv. Later, we learn that the rockets were fired from Rafah in the Gaza Strip, meaning they flew parallel to our direction. They didn't hit, thanks to Israel's sophisticated defense system, which intercepted them in mid-air. Everything remained quiet in our immediate vicinity.
When I'm asked why I put myself in this "danger," I reply: As a friend of Israel, I'm not only there when the sun is shining and the beer tastes good on the beach. I'm there also in the difficult times. That's friendship. That's solidarity.
