The summer of 2005 was a wild one for me as a defense correspondent for The Jerusalem Post. It was consumed by two seemingly disparate events: the Gaza Disengagement and the Red Bull Flugtag competition in Tel Aviv. Looking back two decades later, the contrast between the national angst surrounding the pullout and the lighthearted absurdity of a homemade flying machine competition is stark, and yet, they both tell a story of Israel in transition.
The Disengagement was, without a doubt, the heaviest story of the year, if not the decade. It was a tale of historic proportions, the forced removal of 8,000 Jewish settlers from their homes in the Gaza Strip and four settlements in Samaria. I remember the pervasive feeling of decline within the Jewish settler movement, a steady slide that began with the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin a decade earlier. The deep schisms in society, brutally exposed then, had degenerated into a gradual abandonment, downright resentment, and ultimately, apathy by the rest of the Israelis.
The prime minister, Ariel Sharon, once a “bulldozer” of the settlement movement, was now the one ordering the eviction. While settlers cried on Tisha B’Av, feeling as if the Temple were being torn down again, the rest of Israel, myself included, was largely relieved, tired of the reserve duties and the burden of protecting the Gush Katifers.
And for the Palestinians, a dream had come true: the Jews were gone. We now know, in retrospect, that this new hope for a peaceful arrangement in the region did not materialize. Two years later, Hamas took over in a bloody coup, advancing that dream to a whole new level.
Sharon’s decision for unilateral withdrawal in 2005 was a response to a complex set of pressures. He was losing two key elements in his war against Palestinian terrorism: internal unity and a sympathetic ear in Washington. Domestically, there was a growing unwillingness to participate in the crushing of Palestinians; pilots refused to fly, and a “gray refusal” was spreading among reserve units called up to protect settlers.
Internationally, Israel was facing increasing isolation. Unilateralism was born out of a need for a “political horizon” that Washington demanded, and it conveniently lopped off 1.8 million Palestinians, relieving the IDF of a huge target it had to protect. Sharon understood that the vast majority of Israelis no longer believed these settlements were vital to Israel’s existence.
Yet, the proposal to forcibly remove 1,500 families – 8,000 Jews – from homes the government had sent them to in the first place was outrageously painful. Israel had captured the Gaza Strip from the Egyptians in 1967. For the evacuation, more than 25,000 security forces were planned. The western Negev looked like a staging ground for D-Day, swollen with military vehicles, camps, supplies, tanks, guns, and various machinery. The withdrawal, dubbed “The Disengagement,” initially planned for weeks, ended up taking less than a week.
From spring, the IDF began dismantling its bases and choking off Gush Katif, preventing new residents and, later, even visitors. But thousands slipped in, hiding in car trunks, bunking in abandoned caravans, or trying to get in by sea. At one point, 70,000 settlers and supporters marched toward Gush Katif, leading to a three-day standoff at Kfar Maimon. Opponents adopted orange as their color, tying orange ribbons everywhere.
The army was feverishly preparing for this “most unwanted task.” Lt.-Gen. Dan Halutz, who took command of the IDF on June 1, vowed to carry out the evacuation with “utmost sensitivity,” allowing no place for refusal. There were fears of massive refusal by angst-filled soldiers.
The army poured huge resources into the “mental preparation” of troops. I spent time with members of the Caracal unit, observing their training to remove resistant settlers physically, and simulate the pressure and abuse they would face. They were instructed not to accept food offerings or look settlers in the eye, striving for “robots who feel angst.”
The whole world was watching. It was going to be a media circus, the hottest story of the year, even earning an AP photographer a Pulitzer Prize. Every media outfit had a presence, with promises of daily doom and gloom. Headlines screamed about national paralysis, settler suicides, and thousands of soldiers disobeying orders. Looking back, the sensationalism of the Israeli media, in particular, was ridiculous.
For a journalist, it was like a reality TV show – authentic and fast-paced. A huge media center was set up at Kibbutz Eshkol, offering shuttles to evacuations, turning into a bizarre camp of reunions and drinking on deadline. It was a reunion for foreign correspondents and Israeli journalists, all vying for a bite of this front-page saga, many entering Gaza for the first time.
We wore red hats, identifying us as media, and were given unprecedented access. Initially, the IDF had planned to limit coverage inside the Strip, but the new IDF spokeswoman, Brig.-Gen. Miri Regev, opened it up to all accredited journalists, resulting in an information overload and thousands of personal stories and photos.
The evacuation begins
Amid this, the summer of 2005 was crazy for me. I was traveling like mad between Gaza, army bases, and headquarters, banging out stories for The Jerusalem Post. But it was also the summer of my son’s bar mitzvah and family visits. On top of it all, I was leading a team from my moshav in the Red Bull Flugtag competition, building a flying machine to launch into the Yarkon River, with over 100,000 spectators who, frankly, couldn’t care less about the Disengagement.
On Sunday, August 14, Tisha B’Av, eviction orders were to be issued the next day. I accompanied IDF chief Halutz to the South, seeing signs from local kibbutzniks expressing sympathy and good wishes to the departing settlers. Trucks and trailers filled with possessions rumbled out of Gush Katif all day.
The army debated whether to tackle the “easy” settlements first or the “hardcore” ones. Halutz believed a short, quick evacuation was best for the nation. The government, in typical Israeli style, procrastinated until the last moment on key decisions, like demolishing homes and synagogues, and disinterring graves. Ultimately, then-defense minister Shaul Mofaz flip-flopped and decided to leave the synagogues intact, citing the difficulty of ordering their destruction as a Jew.
Settlers were given two days to leave voluntarily before forced eviction. The IDF estimated 5,000 right-wing activists had infiltrated the Strip. On the eve of the August 17 deadline, I slipped into Neveh Dekalim, the largest Gush Katif settlement, crashing on the floor of a rented house with other Jerusalem Post reporters.
As troops fanned out, ostensibly to help pack, they also provided a “tree to climb down from,” as residents began accepting the surreal reality of the end. Some settlers bitterly destroyed their own homes, while others boarded buses. In Neveh Dekalim, one family watered their lawn and drank coffee in complete denial. There were tense moments, like 15 Lubavitcher hassidim barricading themselves in a bomb shelter and threatening self-immolation, eventually talked out by the police.
Senior officers personally engaged with residents, reaching deals with rabbis and yeshiva heads. Col. Imad Fares, a division deputy head, noted, “The moment the settlers cracked and decided not to oppose the evacuation, it was over.”
Maj.-Gen. Dan Harel, then-OC Southern Command, faced bitter harangues from residents who saw him as evil incarnate. He calmly listened, even comforting a man who collapsed from emotion. Settlers, verbally defiant but unwilling to raise hands against soldiers, hurled epithets like “Nazi heart” and “Gestapo.” There were isolated acts of violence, like a settler stabbing a female soldier in Morag, and another burning his home in Gan Or. The fate of Kfar Darom and Netzarim, where hardcore opponents had converged, remained uncertain.
The end came swifter than anticipated. The strategy of overwhelming might combined with compassion and persuasion seemed to work. The sight of disciplined soldiers and police drove home the futility of resistance. The army also employed a divide-and-conquer tactic, separating pragmatic residents from fanatical infiltrators. In Tel Katifa, a commander even prayed with infiltrators holed up in a synagogue before they agreed to be carried out “squirming,” a mutual understanding that preserved their dignity.
The next day, Kfar Darom was the focus, with zealots on the synagogue roof pelting police with eggs and paint, but fears of worse violence didn’t materialize. Only Netzarim remained.
That weekend, as the last settlement awaited its fate, Tel Aviv hosted a huge beer festival. And it was during this time that I was immersed in the absurdity of Flugtag. It started about three months prior when Red Bull advertised their competition. Sitting with neighbors, I pitched the idea of building a flying machine, and it caught fire.
As founding members of an ecological village surrounded by vineyards, we naturally adopted a wine motif. Our machine would be a giant grape leaf wing atop a wine bottle on wheels, covered with purple balloons.
There were 33 teams. Organizers assured us the Yarkon Park pond was separate from the polluted river, but only 1.8 m. deep. Flugtag, which originated in Austria and spread to the US, judged us on flying distance, creativity, and performance. The project consumed me. Traveling late at night from Gush Katif, imagining building and flying this contraption was often the only thing keeping me awake, momentarily escaping the grim realities of suicide bombings and home demolitions. As the day approached, our moshav pitched in, with volunteers, buses, and banners, even attracting TV crews and newspapers.
Finally, the big day arrived. There were bizarre contraptions, like a giant troll that would “fart” its pilot out, a flying saucer made of plastic bottles, and a huge foot that would kick its pilot to victory. The Yarkon Park was packed with over 100,000 spectators, including a large, loud delegation from our moshav. We, in togas, pushed our contraption into line, our music, Queen’s “We Will Rock You,” blaring. I ripped off my toga, revealing my flight suit, climbed aboard, and set off smoke grenades.
Like a car accident, I replay it in my mind. Everything was perfect, so why did it fail? As my mates pushed the wine bottle toward the edge, I sat on top, holding the wing. The theory was, it would rush off, the wing would detach, and I’d fly, or at least fall with style.
Instead, I dropped like a stone, hitting the water like a garbage bag filled with tomato soup.
I surfaced, waving to show I was okay. A meaty hand pulled me onto a jet ski, and a TV camera was thrust in my face. I was dripping wet, dazed, and incredulous at the lack of flight. I heard a judge giving us half a point. We wouldn’t be winning the trip to San Francisco. We didn’t know where we placed, and didn’t care.
From home to homeless
Back to the Disengagement, dawn in Gaza on that Monday brought an eerie domestic scene to Netzarim, the last isolated settlement. Mothers pushed strollers, residents watered lawns, and men gathered for morning prayers. A group of young men even energetically laid concrete foundations for an unfinished house, believing that building could cause miracles.
By 9:15 a.m., some 2,500 security forces arrived, met with only rare protests. At 1:30 p.m., residents gathered for a final prayer. Rabbis gave emotional, conciliatory addresses, but youth leader Yonatan Sarid’s wail struck a chord: “The Arabs couldn’t force us out... but I ask you all, how can a Jew expel another Jew?” Many wept and hugged. Residents held a final procession, bidding farewell to their homes.
Netzarim was established as a military farming outpost in 1972, becoming a religious kibbutz 12 years later, and then a community village. The IDF had deployed a full battalion to protect it, and 17 soldiers had died defending it. Shlomit Ziv, a longtime resident, observed, “The army might have said we were a bone in their throat, but you know, Israel is a bone in the throat of the Arab countries.”
The rabbis and residents carried Torah scrolls, a menorah, and Israeli flags, evoking images of Roman soldiers carting off Temple treasures. After the procession, settlers boarded buses for Jerusalem to visit the Western Wall. They were the last to exit, ending 33 years of Jewish settlement in the coastal strip.
Thousands of soldiers remained for three weeks, destroying homes and dismantling infrastructure. On August 30, Benjamin Netanyahu, who voted in favor of the Disengagement, announced his bid to topple Sharon as Likud leader.
On September 11, I attended a somber ceremony at IDF headquarters near Khan Yunis, where the flag was lowered and “Hatikva” was sung. The Palestinians boycotted a meeting to receive maps of infrastructure, angered by the decision to leave synagogues intact.
By September 12, all control was lost, and anarchy erupted. Thousands stormed the remnants of the settlements, looting and destroying synagogues, and carting off whatever they could. Greenhouses, intended for Palestinian farmers, were also demolished. Many Israelis felt a sense of Schadenfreude at the loss. The former settlements became the realm of armed gangs.
Sharon had placed the burden on the Palestinians to show what they could do, and they utterly failed, ousting Fatah and electing Hamas. The very day the IDF pulled out, despite warnings, Palestinians fired Kassam rockets into the Negev. Israel’s reaction was nothing, leading to the belief that if you shoot at Jews, they run away. Graffiti in Gaza declared: “10 years of Oslo – nothing; four years of Intifada – victory.”
For the settlers, immediately after the Disengagement, sitting in hotel rooms or tent villages, tough questions arose. How had they, lovers of the Land of Israel, lost the People of Israel? The answers were harsh. Had their deep inner sense of being right blinded them to their waning support?
On the positive side, the Disengagement made the settlers’ existence, if not their positions, more familiar to mainstream Israel. Their plight was brought into everyone’s living room nightly. Israelis saw they were not just Gush Emunim elites or crazy religious fanatics, but farmers, surfers, fishermen, and Torah scholars. They had made a hostile area green and fertile for 30 years, a feat on par with the first kibbutzim.
For the last five years, they had lived in hell, enduring over 6,000 mortar rounds and attacks. Many settlers believed their mission was divinely ordered and couldn’t fail. The fall of Gush Katif was paramount to the collapse of their ideology and a lack of faith in Israeli leadership. There was a sense that the government was abandoning them.
Israel and the world watched as 8,000 Jewish patriots were transformed into homeless wandering Jews in their land. They learned that Gaza and Gush Katif were simply too far from mainstream Israeli consensus for anyone to care.
And me, who spent months in reserve duty in Gaza, covered the Intifadas, reported on the entry of PLO chief Yasser Arafat and the lives and deaths of soldiers and settlers – I haven’t been back into the Gaza Strip ever since.
Twenty years later, everything has changed. Back then, our biggest worries were suicide bombers and Palestinian terrorists. Existential threats seemed distant, as did COVID, judicial reform, Hezbollah rockets, Iranian missiles, and Hamas massacres. The Disengagement felt like the worst thing that could happen.
For the settler Right, it was deep despair, a feeling of being abandoned. But for the vast majority of Israelis, it was a great summer, finally getting rid of that “bone in the throat” of Gush Katif and giving Gazans the freedom they wanted.
Who knew then that 20 years later, Iran would be sending massive rockets, and Houthis would be blowing up ships? Who would have dreamed Israel would be ruled by the same man for 15 years – the very man who, along with most of his Likud Party, voted for the withdrawal?
My, how we have changed, or perhaps, how the world around us has changed. The lightheartedness of Flugtag, with its 100,000 spectators who “couldn’t care less about the Disengagement,” now seems like a distant echo of a simpler time, when our biggest worries were indeed, well, simpler.