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Black History Month 2025

Opinion: In memory of my uncle Yossi Avtalon, a tribute to victims of Oct. 7

Molly Gurland’s mother poses for a portrait with Gurland’s great-uncle Yossi Avtalon, also known as Zigi. (Courtesy of Molly Gurland)

By Molly Gurland

Oct. 7, 2024 9:47 a.m.

“Help, help, help us please if anyone saw our Zigi. He is my grandmother baby brother. We need to find him. If you saw his face in a video or if there is someone who saw him at any point, please give us a call, any little piece of information. He is 77, has no left arm, was alone in he’s house during the attack on Be’eri. Last contact was on Saturday at 9:45 in the morning.”

It was my second gameday at UCLA, and it was way too hot at the Rose Bowl. Sweaty, tired and preoccupied with feeling sorry for myself, I sat on the Rooter Bus back to campus.

The sorority rushprocess didn’t go my way, and it seemed like everyone had already made so many friends. I became convinced I was doing college all wrong. My internet started to work again right in time to invite my family group chat to my pity party.

After I sent a text message about how miserable I was feeling, I saw a screenshot of my second cousin Michal’s Instagram story. The post was a missing persons notice. I recognized the individual pictured immediately: It was my great-uncle Zigi.

I was seven years old when I first visited Kibbutz Be’eri. Showered with hugs from second, third and fourth cousins, I was confronted with a completely different way of life.

I remember kids running around barefoot – darting in and out of neighbors’ houses – huge parties at the community pool on hot summer days and bustling meal hours in the communal dining room. My sisters and I couldn’t get enough of the chocolatepudding.

I recall sitting on my uncle Zigi’s lap as we rode on golf carts all around the neighborhood. I’ve yet to find another place that embodies even a fraction of the sense of community, work ethic, gratitude and peace that filled every inch of Kibbutz Be’eri.

Located roughly three miles away from the eastern border of the Gaza Strip, Kibbutz Be’eri is in the Negev Desert in southern Israel. There are kibbutzim all over the state of Israel. These communities are historically founded upon socialist ideologies in which all residents live according to egalitarian and collectivist principles. Be’eri specifically has its own printing factory and art gallery. The majority of Be’eri residents tends to lean toward the liberal side of the political spectrum, desiring peace with their Palestinian neighbors.

Gurland and her sister ride on a golf cart driven by their grandmother and Zigi at Kibbutz Be'eri.
Gurland and her sister ride a golf cart driven by their grandmother and Zigi at Kibbutz Be’eri. (Courtesy of Molly Gurland)

To the average American, kibbutz life would be a culture shock. In many ways, it represents an important aspect of Israeli culture: the value of working tirelessly to support, protect and maintain both the happiness and health of the family that is the Jewish people.

On Oct. 7, 2023, approximately 340 gunmen infiltrated Be’eri.

During the attack, 101 civilians were murdered, including a 9-month-old baby, and 30 hostageswere taken in what is now regarded as the largest single-day massacre of Jews since the Holocaust.

The Israeli Defense Forces were unprepared. The attack began at around 6:30 a.m. Thirty-one security personnel were killed, and it was not until after 10 p.m. that the IDF regained operational control over the kibbutz.

In the days following the attack, my family and I heard nothing. I scrolled through videos online, holding my breath as I scanned the videos, praying that I didn’t recognize any victim’s faces.

I learned that 251 hostages were taken into Gaza that day. The concept of hostages was foreign to me then, and none of it felt real.

Now, for Jews worldwide, the word “hostage” burns through our souls. Not a day passes without us screaming, crying and praying for our brothers and sisters held captive.

I had no choice but to remain in class, wondering if my uncle was one of them.

Finally, my mom heard back from her cousin. It was confirmed that Zigi’s body had been found.

He and his dog Elvis were shot, killed and dragged out of their home.

Several bullets were found in his house. We later learned that my cousin Zohar and her family were trapped in their at-home bomb shelter while the gunmen set fire to their house after attempting to break through the shelter door. Thankfully, they made it out alive.

Just after I heard this news, it was time to make my way to philosophy class. As I was passing the John Wooden Center, I saw a sign that read, “Jews are the new Nazis.”

Little did I know at the time that this would be my first of many encounters on UCLA’s campus that would leave me feeling misunderstood, threatened and ultimately afraid as a Jewish student.

In her eulogy, Zigi’s daughter Adi described how Zigi was a giving, creative and dedicated person. She wrote about how he lived both ambitiously and peacefully with his disability, his loving commitment to his wife Roni and his childlike enthusiasm for everyday life.

“Recently, the situation in the country has really alarmed you. The hatred, the acceptance of the decisions being made, our neighbors in Gaza,” Adi wrote. “You were very worried and worried about us when we went to protests, and you were also proud of us, always wanting to know that we were back safely.”

Those words touch on the authentic sentiments and conversations that Israeli citizens exchange regarding the conflict.

But I do not need to explain that Israelis are a separate entity from the Israeli government. I could describe the diversity of opinion and identity amongst the Israeli people. I could talk about the residents of the kibbutz that would drive Palestinians to hospitals in Israel to access medical care.

I am not here to address my or my family’s opinions on the conflict.

What I am here to do is highlight the life of one individual, Yossi Avtalon.

A little brother, a husband, a father, a grandfather and a big music man. I am here to paint a picture of the slice of heaven that was Be’eri and to tell the story of how that paradise turned into hell.

“How will I know where my home is now?” Zigi’s eldest daughter Neta wrote. “Where will I lay my head in a month or two or a year when we will no longer be the ‘news’?”

A year since that day, Kibbutz Be’eri is nearly empty. My family has been displaced, and as they try to rebuild and recover, they are faced with an unrecognizable home – children’s bedroom floors stained with pools of blood and homes destroyed or burned.

Time goes on, and my community has no choice but to move forward as we have time and time again.

The stories of the victims of Oct. 7 may not be in your headlines anymore, yet I hope Zigi’s story urges all of you to recognize the blessing of being able to return to and rely on your loved ones.

As I connected with my family while writing this piece, I reached out to my 21-year-old cousin, Hadas. She detailed how traumatic it was to return to Be’eri for the first time and see her home destroyed.

As the fall quarter begins, I am grateful to return to the campus I love so much as a proud Jewish student. Yet, we continue to navigate the immense sadness and rage surrounding the unfathomable loss from Oct. 7 and the conflict that followed, including how it spilled over onto campus.

I have no doubt that conversations about the conflict will continue, but I ask that when you notice your words invoking fear or anger from a certain community, ask them why. I cannot make any promises, but if we sat down and used our own words, I believe we can uncover some compassion and learn something that we did not know before.

We must recognize our privilege as Americans to advocate for or against the actions of the institutions we are involved with. There are so many communities around the world that would endanger themselves by speaking out against their respective systems of power and oppression.

Nonetheless, with privilege comes responsibility.

In this era of unprecedented media bias, we are responsible for the formation of our own well-sourced opinions. We can demonstrate our ideals without invalidating each other’s grief. We can demand action against human tragedy without intimidating others. We can vocally protest while being more mindful that our chants or slogans do not call for more violence.

I am filled with hope that deeper and more thoughtful conversations can replace entrenched divisions and pointless destruction this year on UCLA’s campus.

To my family in Israel, I know we do not get to see you guys as much as we’d like, but we love you all so much and admire your strength and resilience.

In honor of all the individuals who lost their lives or lost a loved one on Oct. 7, 2023, “זכרונם לברכה” – may their memory be a blessing.

Gurland's extended family poses for a picture near the pool at Kibbutz Be'eri in 2012. (Courtesy of Molly Gurland)
Gurland’s extended family poses for a picture near the pool at Kibbutz Be’eri. (Courtesy of Molly Gurland)
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