ShinShinim: It’s Who We Are
ShinShinim are young Israeli leaders who come to the GTA for a year of service, with the mission of bringing authentic Israeli culture to our community.
We volunteer in schools, synagogues, community centres, and youth movements, sharing Israeli culture and our personal experiences while learning about Jewish life in Toronto.
ShinShinim: It’s What We Do
Our goal is to strengthen the connection between the Toronto Jewish community and Israel.
ShinShinim: Our Stories
This exhibition seeks to bring to life the reality we experienced as teenagers growing up in Israel. Through personal stories, we explore experiences of uncertainty under fire, losing people we loved, living through a national trauma, and finding ways to become involved and support our communities. These are our stories - our memories, experiences, and perspectives of growing up in Israel during a difficult and defining time.
“Love goes very far beyond the physical person of the beloved. It finds its deepest meaning in his spiritual being, his inner self.”
-Viktor Frankl
In a single moment, in the early hours of the morning, we Israelis went from being secure in our own homes to refugees. From Israelis to persecuted Jews. More than 1,200 people were murdered that day. Two hundred and fifty-one people were abducted. Thousands wounded. Millions hid in shelters. Terror struck us with full force, without mercy. We were left abandoned and afraid.
All of this happened on a single October day. Such a deeply sorrowful day. In less than 24 hours, the State of Israel changed beyond recognition. History came knocking at our door. Not since the Holocaust had so many Jews been murdered in a single day. The country filled with bereaved parents and siblings, widows and orphans. People desperately posted on social media, searching for their loved ones. Hundreds of thousands of residents from the communities surrounding Gaza and along the northern border fled their homes and became displaced.
It was our saddest moment. Our lowest moment. Our weakest moment.
And the open wounds left within us by that dark day will remain with us for the rest of our lives. -ShinShinim Toronto
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The Kibbutzim on October 7, 2023
On the morning of October 7, 2023, Hamas and other armed groups launched a large-scale attack from Gaza into southern Israel. Several kibbutzim near the Gaza border were attacked, including Be’eri, Kfar Aza and Nir Oz.
Families were at home when armed attackers entered their communities. People hid in safe rooms as the attacks unfolded. Many were killed; others were taken hostage and brought to Gaza.
The loss was devastating. In Be’eri, 105 people were killed and 31 were taken hostage in Nir Oz, 46 people were killed and 72 taken hostages. Across the October 7th attack, approximately 1,200 people were killed and more than 250 were taken hostage.
The kibbutzim were not simply places where people lived. They were close knit communities where families and neighbours supported one another, and generations built their lives together.
“October 7 changed these communities forever. Remembering the kibbutzim means remembering the people who called them home, those who were killed, those who were taken hostage, and those who survived.”
-Pelleg Aram
Pg 3
Yishay and Noam Slotki z”l, brothers, two heroes who grew up in my kibbutz and attended the same elementary school as I did, lost their lives defending Kibbutz Alumim on October 7th.
I remember when my parents told me that Yishay and Noam Slotki—who grew up with my brothers and whose father, Rabbi Shmuel Slotki, officiated my parents' wedding—headed toward Gaza to save lives and defend others. I remember admiring them. I remember feeling I needed to take action myself, and perhaps that same feeling still guides my choices today.
Most of all, I remember the deep worry. How for nearly a week they couldn't be found, and how, as a young and naive teenager, I believed they were just hiding out and would eventually return home.
Although I didn't know Noam and Yishay personally, through the stories I've heard I know who they were. They were heroes. They fought until the very last moment, falling side by side as brothers like something out of a fairy tale.
Every year, my kibbutz holds a soccer tournament in honor of the Slotki brothers. The youth in our kibbutz play a major role in making it happen, drawing people from kibbutzim all across the valley and beyond. This tournament represents resilience, renewal, and the legacy they left behind.
-Netanel Pashur
The hero I want to tell you about is my close friend, Rimon Kedem, from Kibbutz Be’eri. Rimon is known for his warm smile and endless optimism — and with incredible bravery, he survived the horrors of October 7th.
He spent 16 hours hiding with his parents in their safe room, while terrorists destroyed their home. When they were rescued by Israeli soldiers and finally able to come out, he found out that his two best friends, Alon Even and Lior Trashchensky, were murdered in their homes.
But even after all that, Rimon chose life. He keeps showing up everywhere with strength, light, and a smile that lifts everyone around him. That’s why he’s my hero.
-Ilai Michael
Pg 4
I remember the morning of October 7th as if it were yesterday.
It was a Saturday, and we were supposed to go back to school the next day. I had just started 10th grade and was so excited to begin high school.
I woke up late because I was supposed to go to a Bruno Mars concert that evening.
I woke up to the sound of my little sister crying and shouting that there was no concert, and that Bruno Mars was leaving the country.
We didn't know why yet.
I live near Haifa, so we didn't really understand what had happened that morning.
Later, my dad was called up for reserve duty. Even though we begged him not to go, he decided he had to—but he didn't tell us why.
I felt like people were trying to hide what was going on in Israel from us. I felt completely helpless.
In the evening, my friends told me they had seen horrifying videos on social media and explained what happened.
To this day, I feel that a part of me and my innocence was lost on that day.
A part of all of us.
-Yuval Aran
Roi Nahari grew up in Moshav Ora, near Jerusalem. He attended Ein Harim Elementary School and Boyer High School in Jerusalem. He was raised in a warm, close-knit family filled with love, positive energy, and a zest for life. Family was one of the most important things in his life. Beyond the strong bond he shared with his parents and siblings, he also had a wide circle of friends.
Roi was the brother of one of my classmates. His story came as a particular shock to me because he had followed a path very similar to mine, growing up near Jerusalem and attending the same elementary and high schools.
He was intelligent and sensitive, with a great sense of humour and a joyful spirit. A true and caring friend, he always put the wellbeing of others before his own and was always eager to help. He was deeply loved by his friends. From a young age, Roi showed natural charisma and leadership, along with a strong sense of responsibility.
Roi loved sports and was a talented basketball player. He began playing as a child on a youth team and, during his teenage years, played for Hapoel Jerusalem, where he was considered one of the club’s rising stars. He also served as captain of his school’s basketball team.
Roi was killed in the line of duty. His family chose to donate his organs, saving the lives of five people.
-Ayala Yaari
Pg 5
As a teenager, October 7th was an experience that deeply shook me.
Mia Schem, a resident of my town and the sister of my brother's close friend, was kidnapped. During the first few days, we had no idea what happened to her, and I remember trying to figure out her location through her phone signal. After a week, we found out she had been taken hostage, and a few days later, a video of her in captivity was released.
My brother immediately stepped up, joining the headquarters her family set up at her aunt and uncle's house. He managed the Instagram account dedicated to bringing her back. I helped create several videos with him that were posted on social media.
In November, Mia returned after a struggle that felt incredibly long—a moment that was deeply emotional and inspiring.
In December, right in the middle of Mia's rehabilitation process, tragedy struck Mia and all of us once again. We heard Mia's best friend, the late Elia Toledano, who was kidnapped alongside her from the Nova festival, had been murdered in captivity one month earlier, and his body had just been recovered.
Elia lived in Tel Aviv and had started studying his dream field—event production. He built a highly successful business, loved his work, and was a kind-hearted, generous, supportive, and humble person who was always surrounded by friends. May his memory be a blessing.
-Ido Garty
I woke up to the sound of sirens. I was extremely jet lagged; I had just returned from New York, where I had been visiting my family. So, I remember that day only vaguely. I think, even to this day, I haven’t fully processed what happened, and I feel like that shapes a big part of my experience and the feelings surrounding it.
My two older brothers came home from the army that weekend. We were hoping to have a nice Shabbat together, but that morning, they both had to return and respond to the needs of the moment. At the time, we didn’t really understand what was happening.
My dad drove them both back. My mom and I stayed at home.
I was very confused and worried.
I started seeing horrifying things on social media, and at first, I was convinced they were fake. Unfortunately, it all turned out to be true, and even worse than I could have imagined.
I remember how frightened I was that night, thinking the terrorists might reach my home too. That fear stayed with me for a long time, and in some ways, I still carry it with me today.
-Inbal Zayit
Pg 6
Ron Epstein was born and raised in Nesher. He was an outstanding student who loved physics, mathematics, and software engineering, and was a social, beloved person always willing to help others.
From a young age, Ron loved hiking and running with his father. In fourth grade, he joined the Scouts, which became his second home. Over the years, he became a counselor and later a community leader, making a meaningful impact on the children he guided.
Ron was humble, patient, and caring, with a kind heart and a constant smile. He loved his family, friends, nature, and Maccabi Haifa. Those who knew him remember someone who had a way of making everyone around him feel happier and cared for.
I have a personal connection to Ron. A year before he passed away, I moved into his building in Nesher. I would sometimes meet him in the elevator, and we would talk for a few minutes. Even in those short conversations, you could feel his warmth and happiness. He was someone who simply radiated joy.
When Ron passed away, the entire city of Nesher felt the loss. People throughout the city came together, grieving and walking together in his memory. For me, that made it even clearer how much one person can touch an entire community, even through the smallest everyday interactions.
-Lana Zavodchikov
Pg 7
Tom’s hair was the colour of straw. He didn’t have as many freckles as you’d expect from someone with hair like his, but his skin could turn as red as a tomato in the sun.
Tom was mischievous and wickedly talented. He was the Israeli national Taekwondo champion at 12. He loved to play the drums and seemed to always be strumming his guitar. He’d play songs like “Should I Stay or Should I Go” by The Clash and “Cyclone” by Sticky Fingers and, to the household’s dismay, “Hatikva” in various renditions.
He walked with a heavy step and swung his arms loosely, like he was always on a mission to annoy his little sister. He wore a big grin on his face, and his eyes would squint to show the tiniest sliver of blue as he’d say something clever enough to make her jump in her seat out of exasperation.
Tom Rotstein was my cousin Natalie’s boyfriend for over a year. He was serving in an Explosive Ordnance Disposal unit when he died in an explosion. He was 23.
She often goes to his grave and makes tea for two, thinking of the songs he would always play for her on the guitar.
-Yuval Elbert
Beni Weiss (Weistuch) was born in 2001 to his parents, Eli and Ina. He was the older brother of Tommy and Daniel.
Beni grew up in the same Scouts chapter I did. I didn’t have the chance to know him personally, but since his passing, we have dedicated many of our activities to his memory and developed a strong relationship with his family.
At the age of five, Beni moved with his family to Haifa. In 2016, while in 10th grade, he joined the Tidhar Scouts Chapter and immediately found his place. He became a beloved member, spending countless days and nights with friends and at the Scouts. Even after graduating, he continued to return and volunteer. The neighbourhood became his second home.
Beni loved going out and bringing people together. He was always convincing his friends to join him at another party, simply because he wanted everyone to celebrate together.
His love for the Land of Israel was one of the values closest to his heart. He loved exploring the country on foot and walking its trails. Every trip with Beni became an adventure. In photos from those journeys, his huge smile showed how deeply he loved Israel and its landscapes.
His friends deeply miss his unique smile and contagious laughter, the conversations, messages, stories, hikes, and all the experiences they shared with him.
-Amy Talmi
Pg 8
It isn’t easy for me to share this story, but I know how important it is to me and to everyone who knew and loved Maya.
Maya was part of my father’s close circle of friends and was married to Tzafrir. Together, they have two children, Uri and Ella.
On Simchat Torah, Maya, Tzafrir, and their children went to celebrate the holiday with Tzafrir’s parents at Kibbutz Kfar Aza.
On the morning of October 7, terrorists entered the kibbutz. Tzafrir and his family, together with his parents, took shelter in the safe room.
After several hours, Tzafrir heard terrorists entering the house. He immediately pressed himself against the safe-room door, holding it shut as they tried to force their way inside.
Tzafrir refused to let go.
Eventually, the terrorists gave up, but not before firing a bullet through the safe-room door,
hitting Maya. When the terrorists finally left, Tzafrir, unaware of what had happened to Maya, said to her, “Throw the phone back to me.” Maya didn’t answer. Tzafrir quickly realized that Maya was no longer with them. Their children wanted to speak to their mother and asked what had happened to her. He told them, “Mom was a little tired. She went to sleep.” By holding that door, Tzafrir saved his children and his parents during unimaginable circumstances. Today, he is surrounded by people who love and support him. He continues to honour Maya’s memory by carrying on her life’s work, growing and selling moringa plants.
-Ido Belinsky
Pg 9
This is the story of Yarin Mary Peled, as told by my brother, Roee. I’m sharing his words and memories of her.
I served as a paramedic on an EMT crew. That’s where I met Yarin, who served as a medic on the same crew.
The first thing I said was, “Hi, I’m Roee. I’m your new paramedic.” She replied, “I already know you. You were my Magen David Adom instructor a few years ago.”
I remember Yarin as one of the funniest, most lovable and charismatic people I knew. She had the biggest smile and was always the first to offer help.
As a teenager, Yarin volunteered with Magen David Adom and trained young medics. After graduating, she joined the IDF . She dedicated herself to helping others and believed there was good in everyone. She had been accepted to university to study nursing and continue caring for people, but sadly, she never had the chance to fulfill that dream.
On October 7th, the first thing I saw when I woke up was a video showing our ambulance being attacked at the Nahal Oz base. I immediately tried to contact Yarin. She didn’t answer.
Yarin always answered me. In that moment, I knew.
Later, I learned that Yarin had been killed while still in her pajamas, trying to escape while caring for her wounded friends.
Yarin was an amazing young woman, with so many dreams, so much compassion in her hugs, and so much love in her soul.
I remember her, and I will remember her for the rest of my life.
-Amit Debeer
In Memory of Lavi Buchnik
Lavi was a smiling, funny, caring, and deeply Zionist young man who grew up in Moshav Peduim. Friendship, giving to others, and love of his homeland were among the values closest to his heart.
When asked what being Israeli meant to him, he answered:
“To give everything, absolutely everything, for my country and my people. And if I am to die, then for the sanctification of God’s name and in defense of my people and my homeland.”
And that is how he died, a hero, defending his people and his homeland. Lavi fell in the battle for Kibbutz Kissufim on October 7th, after helping save lives.
Before enlisting, Lavi volunteered for a year of service with the Agricultural Union movement and became a beloved member of the volunteer group in Moshav Talmei Elazar.
During that year, he initiated a soccer tournament attended by hundreds of children from the youth movement across the country. Following his death, the moshav decided to make the tournament an annual event in his memory. The local branch where he volunteered was also renamed “Lavi Branch” in his honor.
We will always remember his smile and his laughter, which lit up every room he entered.
Lavi was a volunteer in the year-of-service group based in the moshav where I grew up.
-Amit Elinzon
Her Body Remained the Same
“Her body remained the same: her face still smiles, and her legs will carry her wherever she’ll ask of them.
Perhaps she has lost a bit of weight, but her body remained the same.
I gaze at her cautiously, as though if I look away, she might vanish once more.
She looks into my eyes, as if attempting to convey a message.
Her body remained the same—the laughter, the confusion.
Her body remained the same, yet her eyes, which once radiated light and joy, have emptied of emotion.
The eyes that yearned to behold the entire world witnessed other things instead—things she never imagined she would see in her lifetime.
Her body remained the same; she grew neither taller nor shorter, yet her gaze has shifted.
Her look imparted a single truth: even if her body remains here, her soul is already elsewhere.
That look of hers—I no longer recognize it. Those eyes—I can no longer read.
Her body remained the same, but her soul barely survived.”
-Noya Shany
Ofir’s story did not end on October 7th; that was merely where it began.
She, alongside many others, continues to relive in her very flesh the atrocities witnessed that day.
Ofir is a survivor of the Nova festival. She only wished to dance, but instead found herself witnessing the terrible massacre that unfolded around her.
Beyond what transpired to her physical body, her soul endured far worse realities she never expected to witness in her lifetime.
I choose not to dwell on the atrocities she suffered on that dark day; I choose to focus on the here and now—on what we still have the power to mend and restore.
Ofir is alive, yet she will never truly reclaim the life she once knew.
-Noya Shany
Oran Hershko was someone whose family became a part of my family’s life while we were living in Singapore. Our families were very close. We shared Shabbat dinners, celebrated Jewish holidays together, and went to the same school.
Oran was the kind of person who brought light wherever he went. People who knew him called him “Sunshine.” It was a name that suited him. Known for his joy, warmth, and kindness, he made the people around him feel good.
His name, Oran אורן begins with the same word as or, אור, meaning “light.” In many ways, that light reflected who he was. He loved being surrounded by friends and family, was a big soccer fan, and had a way of bringing energy and happiness into every room.
Oran fell at the age of 20.
Although he is no longer here, the light he brought into the lives of the people around him remains.
Oren was Sunshine and his light will continue to shine through the people who remember and love him.
May his memory be a blessing.
-Omer Segal
On October 6th at 10:00pm, my friend and I were talking about how everything felt a little too quiet lately. We talked about that strange feeling we sometimes get when something that has to do with Gaza is about to happen. You can’t explain it. You just feel it in the air.
And then we moved on. We talked about other things, and that night, like every other night, I went to sleep.
October 7th. 6:29 AM. My mom, my six-year-old brother and I all woke up to a rocket alarm like most of the country that day. And you might think that living in southern Israel, I was used to rocket alarms. But the second I opened my eyes, I knew something was different. I didn’t know what was happening yet. I just knew something was terribly wrong.
At my kibbutz, we don’t have safe rooms. We have less than 30 seconds to find somewhere to hide. When the alarms started, all we could do was lie on the floor, cover our heads, and wait.
As the smell of smoke filled the air my mom got a message from my dad, “We will be back once the alarms stop.”
A few minutes later, my mom told him about reports of shootings outside of the kibbutz.
“I know, they shot me,” my dad wrote along with a picture of his bleeding hand.
That was the first piece of evidence that the feeling I had woken up with had been accurate. The chaos was much bigger than I could have imagined.
Later, we received a message from the kibbutz:
“Dear residents, do not go outside. There is a suspected infiltration of terrorists into the kibbutz. Do not leave the shelters or safe rooms. Stay inside your homes with the doors locked.”
In between sirens, my family, along with my Toronto host sister, ran to a nearby shelter.
That was the first time I looked at my phone and found millions of messages.
Pictures of houses on fire. Pictures of terrorists. Desperate calls for help flooding my Instagram and WhatsApp.
Friends and people I knew were missing. Some were reporting terrorists outside their homes; others had been completely unreachable for hours.
I remember the panic. The confusion. The feeling that nothing made sense.
Where was the police? Where was the army? How could something like this be happening?
I turned to my mom and said, “Mom, send help to my friends! How is it possible that no one is helping them?”
She tried to reach out for help. But, of course, there was nothing she could do.
Meanwhile, in the chat with my dad, he told us that an ambulance had driven past him but couldn’t stop to pick him up because there were more serious cases.
Only later did we find out that the same ambulance had been attacked and set on fire until nothing was left of it or the people inside it.
That evening, my mom, my little brother, a few other families and I slept in one of the kibbutz shelters.
That was where I received the first message.
Carmel Bachar. A boy who had been in my class since third grade. A boy with the sweetest smile and one of the kindest hearts I had ever known. Surrounded by friends, loved by everyone.
Carmel. The same Carmel I had known for years, had been murdered by terrorists.
May his memory be a blessing.
Then I received another message.
Techelet - a girl from my kibbutz and one of my youth movement counselors, had moved to Be’eri only about three months earlier - is missing and hasn’t answered her phone since 11am.
Meir and Liz, close friends of my family and their daughter Adi, had been missing and completely out of contact since that morning.
Later, we discovered Techelet had also been murdered while terrorists tried to abduct her. Meir and Liz were murdered in their home in one of the neighboring kibbutzim.
May their memories be a blessing.
The messages kept coming. More missing people. More hostages. More people who had been murdered. More and more kept coming for days, even weeks afterward.
And something people don’t talk about enough - October 8th - and how even then the entire regional council was still crawling with terrorists!
Around noon we were sitting in a building near the shelter when suddenly we heard a burst of gunfire only two neighborhoods away.
We all ran into the safe room and tried to be as quiet as possible. One of the men held onto the door handle while all of us sat there, knowing the terrorists could reach us at any moment.
We prayed. Really prayed that we would all make it through that day alive.
I was the only one from my family there, along with several children I guided at the youth movement. I sat with them, trying to distract them. We played games as I tried to move their thoughts somewhere else.
Eight-to-ten year-old children should not have to sit in a safe room wondering whether a terrorist could walk through the door at any moment and end their lives.
At some point someone tried to open the door.
We shouted, “Who is it?” But there was no answer.
Everything on the other side was completely silent, and whoever was there kept trying to open the door.
I thought it was over.
I pushed the children as far into the corner as I could and held them as tightly as possible.
That was the first time I truly understood what it meant to be terrified for my life.
A few minutes later, the door opened.
And luckily, it was just the father of one of the children. He apparently hadn’t heard us calling out to him.
I felt the biggest wave of relief I had ever experienced in my life.
And from that moment on, I began to appreciate the value of life more deeply than ever before—and I know I always will.
Eventually, the kibbutz security team managed to take control of the situation and deal with the few terrorists who were still there.
Then we received a message: “The kibbutz is now a closed military zone. Take what you can and leave the kibbutz.”
No help. No idea where we were going. No one to protect us.
The entire kibbutz simply packed up and left, searching for somewhere to live for the next six months.
Being torn away from my home, my friends, my dance studio, and everything I had ever known was devastating.
The place that, until the day before, had been the safest place in the world to me was suddenly a place I had to leave behind.
And knowing that my mom was staying behind to take care of the kibbutz and the dairy farm made it even harder.
-Yeela Medina