https://www.wsj.com/articles/israel-mourns-and-prepares-for-war-hamas-terrorism-gaza-9dbb21bf?mod=opinion_lead_pos5
Kfar Aza, Israel
By the time I enter this community adjacent to the Gaza Strip, the Israeli army has removed most of the bodies. I am with a unit of the rescue organization Zaka, whose job is to retrieve parts missing from the bodies of the dead so that they can be made whole and given a proper Jewish burial.
The unit consists of civilians and military personnel, secular and Orthodox Jews. On a coffee break, they sit in a circle on plastic chairs on the patio of a sacked farm that serves as the unit’s headquarters. Some complain about their government’s negligence. One counters that no government can stop the madness of a mob.
The atmosphere of brotherhood contrasts with the recent months of civil struggle. Now, the only thing that counts is the holy task of combing through houses to recover a piece of blackened flesh, an intact foot still in its shoe, a trace of DNA, a bloodstain.
We freeze suddenly when someone finds the body of a jihadist that we fear may be booby-trapped. Then comes a moment of panic because it seems two terrorists might have just entered through a new breach in the security fence nearby, or the old one but now enlarged—no one knows.
We spot a drone in the sky, like a sparrow hawk. Mingling with its wasp-like buzzing are the sounds of dull explosions. A combat unit in assault gear emerges and takes its position. Some soldiers kneel; others climb to the roofs; still others move to the severed security barrier, from which appears a shower of sparks.
I am led into a house with shattered windows. Its inhabitants were murdered, their hands tied behind their backs, shot and in some cases finished off with a knife. I remain for two hours with nothing to do but listen to a surviving neighbor recount the attack. Over and over, he leads me through the rooms of this theater of torture.
The plaster ceilings chipped by shooting. The bullet-riddled walls. The beige sofa that an explosion raised off the ground and sent flying into the broken bay window. The parents’ room, with its unmade bed, hair curlers, worn slippers. The children’s room, with an open coloring book and a battery-powered cat meowing periodically. In the kitchen, an intact bowl of hot chocolate, a toaster, a bottle of cough syrup, a plush toy, an overturned laundry basket. And, at the end of a right-angled hallway, the safe room that the attackers opened by blowing it up with a grenade, leaving nothing but chunks of concrete, bloodied iron reinforcing and empty hinges opening and closing on nothing.