Haley Lerner reflects on her journey during Tikvatenu 3: Volunteer & Solidarity Trip to Israel in March 2025.
For as long as I can remember, whenever I hear the word Kibbutz, I picture a little boy, maybe four or five years old, playing in the dirt. He’s wearing shorts, a tank top, and always a blue and white bucket hat, known in Israel as a Kova Tembel. I’m not sure when this image first formed, but likely in kindergarten, when my class was transformed into a Kibbutz for Israel Fair at the Milwaukee Jewish Day School. That little boy, with his Kova Tembel, symbolized the hardworking resilience and determination of the Zionist movement and became a well known icon for Kibbutzim. To me, he symbolized the vibrancy, joy, and freedom that Kibbutzim are meant to embody.
As our bus pulled into Kibbutz Holit that Wednesday morning, it felt like a completely different world from the one I had always associated with that little boy in his Kova Tembel.
On the third day of our Tikvatenu trip, we visited Kibbutz Holit. After the war began in October 2023, the Jewish Agency launched Communities2Gether, an initiative that paired devastated Kibbutzim in the Gaza Envelope with U.S. cities to support their recovery. Minneapolis was a natural match for Kibbutz Holit because of its strong partnership with Rehovot through Partnership2Gether and because many displaced Holit residents had been relocated there.
Streets that should have been bustling with people riding bikes, pushing strollers, and walking dogs were eerily empty. The only things in sight were a few scattered cars, dumpsters, and pieces of farm equipment. The dining hall, once the heart of a community of just 80 families, was silent. No more than 200 people had called this place home, yet fifteen of them were gone. Posters honoring their lives covered the walls, a heartbreaking reminder of all that had been lost. The Kibbutz was quiet, a stark contrast to the vibrant, close-knit place it had been just sixteen months before. Just two kilometers from the Gaza border, Kibbutz Holit experienced unimaginable devastation when it was infiltrated on October 7, 2023.
Later in the day, we saw the devastation up close, but we started our visit by getting to work.
We got started, digging right in, quite literally, planting trees throughout an otherwise stark and lifeless field between homes and the Kibbutz fence line. Of the 200 Kibbutz members, only four or five remain there right now, tirelessly maintaining the land and preparing for their neighbors’ anticipated return. What took our group an hour, transforming a barren field into one filled with new life, would have taken the remaining residents hours or even days to accomplish. While working, I was reminded of the words, Kol Yisrael Arevim Zeh La Zeh, all of Israel is responsible for one another. It was a simple act, but we could tell it meant the world to them, hopefully reminding them that they are not in this alone. It was an honor to help plant the seeds, both literally and figuratively, that will hopefully grow into a future of strength and renewal for the next generations of Kibbutz Holit. Though small now, these trees symbolize the determination and optimism that will one day bear fruit, providing not only shade and protection but also a lasting reminder of the Holit’s perseverance.
As we stepped back to admire the now-living field on Tu B’Shvat, we were introduced to one of the residents of Holit who remains at the Kibbutz. He took us through what had once been the heart of the community, small, winding paths lined with just a handful of homes, each patio overlooking the other. Holit had always been a tightly-knit community of only two hundred people. As he shared stories of his friends and neighbors, he painted a vivid picture of life before the devastation, recounting the deep pain each resident has carried since October 7th.
After hearing stories of the community’s close bonds and the lives that had been lived there, we walked into the heart of the devastation. Seeing the destruction firsthand was jarring. Homes reduced to ashes. Bullet-ridden walls. Spray-painted markings indicating where grenades exploded or bodies were found. To see something that once felt distant, only seen through a screen or news report, come to life in front of your eyes is something that is hard to explain. It’s a chill and an ache you feel down to your bones. In a community so small, where every life is intertwined, the loss was unimaginable. Among those lost was thirty-three-year-old Adi Vital-Kaploun.
Our group gathered on the lawn outside of Adi’s home, where we met her mother, Jacqui. It was the second time Jacqui had returned to Holit, to the home where her daughter had been murdered. With unimaginable strength and courage, she told us what had happened to Adi and her two young sons, Negev and Eshel, on that horrific day. Adi was brutally killed in her home while fearlessly protecting her boys, who miraculously survived, though not without trauma, paraded around by the terrorists to create propaganda videos, kidnapped into Gaza, and eventually escaping with their neighbor. With sheer bravery, Adi convinced her father and husband to stay away that morning, likely saving their lives as well.
But Jacqui did not just tell us about the horrible loss of Adi. She told us about who she was. Adi was an athlete, an engineer, a musician, and, most of all, a devoted wife and incredible mother.
Each tragedy from October 7th is unimaginable, but this one felt especially personal. Adi was my age. Her children were the same ages as mine. As a mother, I couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to be in Adi’s shoes, trying to protect my children in the face of such terror. It’s a pain I could never truly understand, but one that hit so close to home.
To be a mother is to be a superhero, and Adi was just that. I ache for her loss and for the void that is left in her family’s life. And yet, I also find strength in her bravery, in the way she gave everything to ensure her children survived. I will always think of Adi. May her memory be a blessing. Our time with Jacqui concluded as we walked through Adi’s home, bearing witness to the unrelenting destruction that Hamas inflicted. The stories from October 7th often feel like an alternate reality. I am incredibly grateful to have met and heard about Adi from her mother. To be able to sit, listen, and support those hurting is powerful. That can be done when you show up, and as Tikvatenu 3 with the MJF, that is just what we did.
By the end of the day at Holit, the contrast between the life we had just planted and surrounding destruction was even more striking. We began the day planting trees, a small but symbolic act, a step toward healing. Yet, as we toured the Kibbutz, the homes reduced to rubble and the silence that lingered was a stark reminder of the devastation. It felt like living in two realities at once; one of life trying to grow, the other of death still present. It’s really how the entire country feels right now.
And yet, even with all of this, there is still a palpable sense of hope, tikvah, a belief in the future against all odds. The people of Holit, though they’ve lost so much, are still here, still fighting to rebuild. There’s a resilience that can’t be broken. Though it’s not the Kova Tembel boy I typically envision, I believe one day the streets will be filled with laughter again. The rebuilding will take time, but Holit will return to the community it was always meant to be. I am grateful to have been part of it.
This day embodied the true essence of the Tikvatenu trip: building connections, bearing witness, and standing in solidarity with Israel. It was an honor to hear the stories of the residents, to plant trees that will shade future generations, and to sit with Jacqui, remembering her daughter Adi not just for how she died, but for how she lived.
I went. I saw. I will never be the same. Now it’s your turn. Israel needs you.
History is being written, and the people of Israel must know that they are not alone. Book the trip. Go. Stand with them.
Am Yisrael Chai.
