Sharon Eilon Photography

Project Statement, By Sharon Eilon

This project evolved after several months of passing by the ruins of ahouse on my daily drive to work. I've seen this wreckage every single day, thishome with no roof and its top floor completely demolished. A few walls were allthat was left of the ground floor, and even those had massive openings in them,leaving the house dramatically exposed.

I knew that this house, located in my hometown and close to my own home,had suffered the direct hit of a rocket during the "Guardian of theWalls" military operation. I also knew that, thankfully, the lives of thatfamily that lived there had been spared. Still, something about the remains ofthis house triggered some primal fears within me.

With every passing day, the thoughts within me intensified: who was thefamily that once lived in this house? Where were they when the house was hit?What does it do to a person, to know he was a hairsbreadth away from his death?How does it feel to lose your home, your roots, your safe place? Where are theyliving now? How can you continue living, functioning, after a trauma of thismagnitude? Can one recover from an emotional and economic tragedy that happensin a fraction of a second without warning? So many questions demanded athorough scrutiny.

After a few weeks, I managed to get in contact with Drora Navon, themother of the family who had lived there. I met with her and her family, intheir temporary house in a nearby city. I was glad to get to know her, heryoungest daughter Liri, and her partner Elisha. I expressed my desire to createsomething meaningful with them, something new out of that chaos. Before themeeting I had prepared myself for rejection. I didn't know if delving into thissubject would be too painful for them, but as it turns out my request to do a photographyproject at their house was met with great enthusiasm.

I arrived to meet them at their home for the first time to examine theplace and plan the photography sessions. Nothing could have ever prepared mefor what I saw and felt at these moments. It was as if I had entered a warzone. My senses were heightened, my defense mechanisms triggered, aiming toprotect me from the horrors laid out in front of me. Nothing was left of thespacious house but the perforated broken walls of the ground floor, brickfragments, nails, wooden and metal beams, shattered glasses, and an assortmentof damaged personal belongings scattered everywhere. On the basement floor,which was directly hit by the rocket, the only thing left standing was theshelter, built of 40 cm thick concrete walls.

Everyone who lives in this area knows the drill; once the siren is triggered,we have 90 seconds to get to a shelter or the safest place we can find. Whenthey heard the sirens in the dead of the night the family managed to get into theshelter on time, even bringing in their little dog Carmen, who didn'tunderstand what was going on and refused to get in at first. While we werephotographing, I listened to the family retell these moments of terror insidethe shelter, when they heard the explosion and realized that a rocket had hittheir house directly. Shivers went through me as I tried to imagine the minutesthey spent in that shelter until the rescue teams arrived and they were surethey were safe.

Over the next few weeks, we met up a few times to take the photographs. Iphotographed them doing day-to-day tasks in the house. The poignantcontradiction between the crumbling house and the domesticity in the mundanepersonal activities tugged at my heart. Washing your hair, reading a book,playing cards, all these activities suddenly took on a newly unsettlingmeaning.

Slowly, as time progressed and we got closer and mutual trust developed,I started to see the added value of this project other than my artistic one.Processing this trauma gave birth to a subtle healing flow both behind the lensand in front of it. This close observation has shown me moments of grace,optimism, laughter, love of humanity. These were moments of hope. Drora, beinga strong woman has shown me that much like the phoenix dying in a fire andrising from its ashes, humans too can grow out of horrible tragedies.

Now that this project is over and I go back to look at the photos, I feelall the more emphatically how futile any kind of violence is. How it bringsnothing but sorrow and suffering into this world. I see more clearly the trailof ruined lives left behind any violent-driven action. At the same time, thebelief in man's power to rise from the wreckage and choose to live to thefullest even under harsh circumstances is strengthened in me. I trust the humanability to become a ray of light shining into the darkness, if only for amoment.

Sharon Eilon, January 2022

Her Side of the Story, By Drora Navon

Wednesday, May 12, 2021. Third day ofthe military operation "Guardian of the Walls". It's the middle ofthe night. Around 3 AM a siren is heard. We have 90 seconds to get into theshelter. Me, my partner, and my daughter go out of our rooms on the upper floorof the house, and rush downstairs into the basement floor shelter. 

The shelter was built with this housein 1986. Its walls are made of 40 cm thick concrete, and its iron door canbarely be closed due to its weight. Around us we hear explosions, successful interceptionsof the Iron Dome. We wait for 10 minutes as required, then go out and climbback up the stairs to our rooms. Before we reach the upper floor, another sirenstarts wailing. We go down again and run into the shelter. After much coaxing,my daughter manages to bring our dog in with us. We close the heavy door andwait to hear the "Iron Dome" interceptions. Instead, we hear adeafening explosion. Everything around us shakes, the shelter's door opens, andthick dust mixed with gunpowder fills the air. A burning sensation spreads inmy throat, and I can barely breathe. My instincts tell me that the rocket hitour house.

A few minutes later, I see flashlightsthrough the shelter's door. "How many are you?" they ask,"Three", "All of you OK?", "yes, we are all OK".The rescue team enters, and I can see the basement, or what’sleft of it. The sight hitsme. The basement floor is covered with a mixture of stones, broken furniture,ripped books, metal and glasses. I am in complete shock. Our house has turnedinto debris.

When they ask us if we have any placeto be evacuated to, we vaguely begin to comprehend that we have no home and noplace to return to. In the following days we start to realize g that just likethat, out of nowhere, we have been forced to start everything from scratch allover again.

When Sharon reached me with her ideato create a photography project in the house, I agreed immediately. Despite myinitial hesitation and uncertainty about how we would all feel about going backto the ruins, I still sensed this was the right thing to do. Despite the factwe have already been to the house in an attempt to rescue photo albums andnostalgic personal belongings, spending long hours in the ruins was differentand demanded immense psychological endurance.

The photographed scenes were not easyfor us, both physically and emotionally. Sitting in front of the TV on thecouch, its leather covering torn and its filling spread, broken shelves aroundus, empty drawers and board games mixed with broken glasses and metal fragments- it all made me realize that we will never sit together in that cozy intimatecorner we loved so much. The corner that was our relaxation spot after long daysat work.

Cutting vegetables for a salad filledme with longing for the spacious kitchen and the smell of delicacies; to theSabbath dinners where the family gathered around the table and the house wasfilled with light and children’s laughter mixed with adult conversation; todaily simple meals; to skimming the morning newspapers and nibbling on midnightsnacks.

In the living room, the piano thatknew better days is standing deserted and dusty, one of its side panels missing- yet it still produces pleasant sounds.

Nothing was left of my preciousgarden, which I nurtured with my own hands, enjoying the enchanting smell ofthe roses and the bittersweet taste of the cumquat. Now everything was ruined,shattered, dried, thirsty for water and a caring hand.

Our home, where I raised my children,where we knew laughter and sadness, good days and not-so-gooddays, the home that waspart of my identity, where I collected endless experiences and countlessmemories, was gone. Everything vanished into the void.

Nevertheless, within all the chaosand destruction in my garden rises the Rangoon creeper plant. Its flowers blazingin fierce magenta shades; its smell gentle but powerful. It rises, blossoms, defiant,as if it wishes to say: "I survived the horror".

We too have survived the horror.

This photography project is anotherimportant milestone in our journey back to life.

Drora Navon, January 2022