The Cost of Ignoring History: From Gush Katif to October 7

Exactly twenty years ago, in August 2005, the Israeli government carried out what was officially termed the “Gaza Disengagement.” Yet for many Israelis, this term is a euphemism that conceals the painful truth. Many have always called it by the name that describes what it truly was: an expulsion. This shift in language reflects the emotional trauma and political rupture caused by the forced removal of thousands of Jewish residents from their homes in Gush Katif and northern Samaria. It was not a strategic withdrawal. Rather, it was a brutal uprooting, a violation of democratic principles, and a marginalization of a significant segment of Israeli society. And it had ramifications that affect us to this day.

Gush Katif was not a military outpost or a clot of temporary settlements. It was a vibrant community, home to over 8,000 Israelis who had built beautiful neighborhoods, synagogues, schools, and flourishing agricultural enterprises. These settlements, founded by a Labor government after the Six-Day War,  were a testament to the Zionist pioneering spirit, transforming sand dunes into productive farmland and greenhouses that supplied a significant portion of Israel’s produce. Families lived there for decades, raising children and contributing to the nation’s economy and security. Yet, in a matter of days, these homes were bulldozed, greenhouses destroyed, and lives shattered. Scenes of soldiers dragging crying families from their homes, of synagogues being desecrated by Gazan hordes, and of entire communities being erased remain etched in the national memory. There is one scene that no matter how hard I try to erase it, it always sticks in my mind. It is a video clip of hundreds of teenage girls gathered in a synagogue in Neve Dekalim, the largest town in Gush Katif. They are singing a prayer from Psalm 102, traditionally recited in times of deep sorrow and personal anguish. This prayer, which begins with the words "Tefilla le'ani ki ya'atof" (“A prayer of the afflicted when he is faint”), became a haunting anthem of the heartbreak and spiritual resilience of the Gush Katif community. As soldiers arrived to evacuate families, these girls stood in the synagogue, surrounded by sacred books and the remnants of their community, singing with trembling voices and tear-filled eyes. Their song was not one of protest, but of faith, pain, and dignity, a final act of spiritual defiance in the face of forced exile. In my synagogue in Moreshet, we sing this song in unison every Yom Kippur before praying Mussaf, the most central prayer of the day. I cannot sing along with the congregation because it makes me cry uncontrollably.  

The disengagement was not only a humanitarian and strategic disaster, it was also a democratic failure. Prime Minister Ariel Sharon, who had campaigned on a platform opposing unilateral withdrawals, reversed his position after taking office. Rather than seeking a national referendum or new elections to legitimize such a dramatic policy shift, Sharon bypassed democratic guardrails. He ignored the results of the Likud party referendum, in which a majority of party members voted against the plan. When ministers and Knesset members from his own party opposed him, he dismissed them. He reshuffled his cabinet to ensure a majority and pushed the plan through by force of political maneuvering rather than public consensus. The Knesset was sidelined, and the Israeli public was denied a voice in one of the most consequential decisions in the nation’s history.

This betrayal of democratic norms deeply further alienated a large portion of the population – particularly religious Zionists, settlers, and their supporters – who felt not only abandoned but actively targeted. Their legitimate concerns were dismissed, and their opposition was portrayed as extremist. The disengagement marginalized these citizens, painting them as obstacles to peace rather than as fellow Israelis with a different vision for the country’s future.

In response, thousands of ordinary Israelis like myself mobilized in peaceful protest. They – we – did not resort to violence or rebellion. Instead, they engaged in grassroots activism, going door to door, speaking to strangers, explaining their fears and hopes. They organized rallies, wrote letters, and appealed to the courts. They formed long human chains at the side of the highway – not in the middle of the road, as they have become de rigueur today in Israel. Their efforts were a model of democratic engagement, yet their voices were drowned out by political expediency and international pressure. These were people – farmers, teachers, parents, lawyers and rocket scientists – who believed in the democratic process and tried to use it to prevent what they saw as a national catastrophe.

The timing of the expulsion added a layer of spiritual anguish. It began one day after Tisha B’Av, the saddest day in the Jewish calendar, a day commemorating the destruction of both Holy Temples and the exiles of the Jewish people. It is also the day the Spanish Expulsion began in 1492. The symbolism was not lost on those who saw history repeating itself: Jews being torn from their homes, synagogues desecrated, and communities erased. The trauma of exile was relived in modern times, not at the hands of foreign oppressors, but by a Jewish government.

The consequences of the disengagement have been devastating. The vacuum left in Gaza was quickly filled by Hamas, transforming the area into a launchpad for terror. The promise of peace was replaced by rockets, tunnels, and bloodshed. Most tragically, the disengagement can be seen as a direct or indirect precursor to the October 7 massacre, when Hamas terrorists infiltrated Israeli communities, murdering over a thousand civilians in one of the darkest days in Israeli history. The belief that territorial concessions would bring security was shattered. Instead of peace, Israel received terror on an unprecedented scale. Israel learned that one cannot simply walk away from an existential threat. What is so frustrating is that we all saw it coming. In May 2005, Natan Sharansky resigned from the Israeli government in protest of the Gaza disengagement plan, warning that it was a “tragic mistake” that would strengthen radical groups like Hamas. In an open letter to Ariel Sharon, he argued that unilateral withdrawal without linking it to democratic reforms in Palestinian society would create a power vacuum, empowering Hamas, which was already gaining traction through its social services and militant activities. Sharansky’s prediction was rooted in Hamas’s growing popularity, evidenced by their strong performance in Gaza’s municipal elections in January 2005, signalling their potential to dominate in the absence of Israeli control and a weakened Fatah. Scharansky’s prescience proved tragically accurate.

The 2005 expulsion from Gaza was not just a strategic error, it was a moral and democratic failure. It tore apart communities, undermined trust in government, and emboldened enemies. It is a wound that continues to bleed, a chapter in Israeli history that demands reflection and accountability. As the nation grapples with its future, it must remember the lessons of Gush Katif: Many polls of late show that a not insignificant portion of Israelis are ready to end the war with Hamas, to completely pull the IDF out of Gaza – to disengage, as it were –  and to leave Hamas in power, as long as Hamas returns all of the hostages. These people typically cite three main reasons: first, the urgent need to secure the release of the remaining hostages; second, growing humanitarian concerns over Gaza’s crisis; and third, war fatigue and skepticism about achieving “total victory” over Hamas. The problem is that no matter how tired we have become, if Hamas is not destroyed, Israel will be forced to relive many more October 7s. To quote George Santayana, a Spanish-American philosopher, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”

The people of Gush Katif were not extremists or radicals. They were citizens who believed in the dream of a Jewish homeland, who built lives in accordance with the law, and who contributed to the nation’s strength. Their expulsion was a betrayal of that dream. Today, as Israel faces new challenges and threats, it must look back, not to dwell in the past, but to learn from it. The disengagement was a warning: that ignoring the voices of the people, especially those who live on the front lines, can have catastrophic consequences.

Good things,

Ari Sacher