the photographer who captured the October 7 invasion, and barely es

“I’m 56, and I’ve lived in Netiv HaAsara for 25 years,” says Ronen Avisror. “I’m married with three children. In the past five years, I’ve had two strokes, so I take daily walks on the beach and photograph the sunrise and sunset as part of my rehabilitation. Photography helps me cope.”

“On October 7, at around 6:20 a.m., I drove as usual toward Zikim Beach, but the gate of the moshav wouldn’t open. In hindsight, that’s what saved my life. I sat in my car, eager to capture the sunrise, when suddenly a massive and unusual barrage began — a rain of mortars and rockets. After 25 years in the Gaza border area, you develop a sense for these things. I immediately knew something was terribly wrong.”

“I got out of the car and entered the nearby shelter with my camera. I called the community security chief, who’s also my neighbor. While I waited for the fire to stop, I decided to film the launches. Then I heard a drone overhead, or so I thought. I raised my camera and filmed instinctively, not realizing what I was capturing. It wasn’t a drone, it was two motorized paragliders coming straight toward us. At first I thought they were civilians caught in the crossfire, but then they turned toward the moshav and disappeared. Moments later came the automatic gunfire. That’s when I understood.”

“I called the security chief again and shouted, ‘Terrorists are descending on the moshav from above!’ He told me to stay away and said he was mobilizing the emergency squad. I didn’t know what to do, I couldn’t go back, and I couldn’t stay where I was. My wife and kids were at home. I thought, ‘I can’t just run away.’ Still, I told myself to first find a safe spot and get out of the line of fire.

“About 30 meters away was a dirt path leading to the cemetery. I sped down it like a cartoon character dodging bombs. Eventually, I reached a large greenhouse complex and hid in the first shelter I saw. I told myself, ‘You’re out of range now. Breathe.’”

“I tried to calm down by taking pictures, to distract my mind. Then my legs gave out. I couldn’t control them. For the first time in my life, they shook uncontrollably. I practiced deep breathing and guided imagery to keep from collapsing and somehow it worked. I stayed there alone for about two hours, with the sound of gunfire and explosions in the background. Then I heard footsteps outside the shelter. I hid in a corner until I heard someone call, ‘Ronen? Ronen?’ It was Yariv Volk, the manager of the chrysanthemum farm. Seeing him felt like seeing an angel.”

“We hid together in the greenhouse offices’ reinforced room, trying to understand what was happening through the moshav’s WhatsApp group. We both called everyone we could think of for help. I phoned my nephew, an Apache helicopter pilot, and friends with military ties. But they were just as helpless. They asked, ‘Aren’t there soldiers? The army?’ And we answered, ‘No, there’s no army. We’re on our own.’

“Meanwhile, messages poured in from neighbors begging for rescue: ‘They’re in our yard, please help us.’ Hours passed like that — four, maybe six — and all we could do was pray that someone would finally come.”

“By then I wasn’t afraid anymore, just frustrated. My wife was hiding in the safe room with our oldest and youngest children. Our middle daughter was in Ashkelon with my mother. We communicated through WhatsApp because she was afraid to speak out loud. I was living for those two blue check marks — the sign that she’d read my messages. Through them, I followed the horror in real time, realizing the terrorists were moving from yard to yard, just meters from our home. I couldn’t help her. I called for aid, but none came.”

“Mortars kept falling and the greenhouses around us caught fire. Yariv wanted to run out and put out the flames, but I stopped him. We started piecing together, through the chats, who was still alive and who wasn’t. Neither of us said it out loud, but we both knew some of our close friends were gone. I even lied to my wife, more than I ever had before. When she asked about neighbors who weren’t responding, I told her their phones had died. I knew they were dead. But I wanted to keep her calm — and, if I’m honest, I wanted to keep lying to myself. I told myself maybe they weren’t really dead, maybe it was all a mistake.”

“Amid the chaos, I suddenly recognized the sound of an Apache Vulcan cannon. The terrorists’ gunfire began to fade. I told Yariv, ‘That’s salvation — the Apaches are here.’ Then came single, precise shots — the sound of counterterror units. That’s when I knew our forces had arrived. Slowly, the despair lifted. Then the head of the regional council, Itamar Revivo, showed up with a member of the emergency squad. Seeing them, even though Revivo doesn’t live in our community, made me realize how bad things had been. Together, we made our way to the center of the moshav.”

“When we reached the center, I set my camera on the car window and kept shooting automatically. It was twilight, the sky red on one side, black with smoke on the other. I walked toward my house until soldiers stopped me. I told them I was going to rescue my family, but they said I couldn’t go alone. They surrounded me with armored vehicles and drove with me. As we neared my home, I saw the paragliders I’d filmed that morning lying on the ground. When I tried to turn toward my street, the officer said, ‘You can’t. Your neighbors are lying there, dead.’ I insisted, but he told me to keep my eyes left.”

“I stormed into the house and shouted to my wife, ‘Pack quickly, we’re leaving now.’ We didn’t even hug — just relief. I was in survival mode. Within minutes, we threw clothes into bags, grabbed our dog and our neighbors’ dog, and soldiers evacuated us. Later I learned the emergency squad had stopped the terrorists just 20 meters from our house. Six of my friends died fighting them.”

“A week later, my wife and I went for a walk on the beach at Ma’agan Michael, where we’re staying now. We met a couple from Kibbutz Be’eri. The woman recognized me from my morning runs at Zikim. She spoke about yoga and breathing, and then her partner showed us his tattoo — the word ‘Breathe.’ My wife and I looked at each other and said, ‘That’s it.’ Breathing means living, regaining control. We told our kids, ‘We have an idea for a tattoo.’

“We all went together. The tattoo artist listened to our story, hugged each of us, and cried. When we tried to pay, she said, ‘No way. This is the most meaningful tattoo I’ve ever done.’”