🔗 Share this article

It began during that morning that seemed entirely routine. I was traveling together with my loved ones to collect a furry companion. Life felt predictable – then reality shattered.

Checking my device, I saw updates about the border region. I tried reaching my mum, expecting her reassuring tone saying they were secure. Silence. My dad didn't respond either. Afterward, I reached my brother – his voice already told me the awful reality prior to he explained.

The Developing Tragedy

I've observed countless individuals through news coverage whose worlds were torn apart. Their expressions showing they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The torrent of horror were building, and the debris was still swirling.

My young one glanced toward me across the seat. I shifted to reach out alone. By the time we reached the city, I encountered the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the attackers who took over her home.

I thought to myself: "Not a single of our friends could live through this."

Eventually, I witnessed recordings depicting flames erupting from our house. Despite this, in the following days, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – until my family sent me images and proof.

The Fallout

Getting to our destination, I called the puppy provider. "Conflict has begun," I said. "My parents may not survive. Our neighborhood fell to by attackers."

The return trip involved trying to contact community members and at the same time shielding my child from the horrific images that were emerging across platforms.

The scenes during those hours transcended any possible expectation. A child from our community seized by armed militants. Someone who taught me transported to the territory using transportation.

People shared social media clips appearing unbelievable. My mother's elderly companion also taken across the border. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – being rounded up by militants, the fear in her eyes stunning.

The Painful Period

It appeared interminable for the military to come our community. Then started the painful anticipation for news. Later that afternoon, one photograph circulated depicting escapees. My mother and father weren't there.

During the following period, as community members worked with authorities document losses, we scoured digital spaces for signs of our loved ones. We encountered torture and mutilation. We never found footage of my father – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the reality emerged more fully. My elderly parents – as well as 74 others – became captives from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, a quarter of our neighbors were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my mum was released from captivity. Before departing, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of her captor. "Shalom," she uttered. That image – a simple human connection within unimaginable horror – was shared everywhere.

Five hundred and two days following, Dad's body were returned. He was killed only kilometers from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and the recorded evidence remain with me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts for the captives, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has intensified the initial trauma.

My mother and father remained advocates for peace. My mother still is, like most of my family. We know that animosity and retaliation don't offer any comfort from this tragedy.

I share these thoughts through tears. Over the months, discussing these events grows harder, rather than simpler. The kids from my community continue imprisoned with the burden of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I call remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We typically sharing our story to fight for freedom, while mourning seems unaffordable we don't have – now, our efforts persists.

Not one word of this account represents justification for war. I have consistently opposed the fighting from the beginning. The people across the border have suffered terribly.

I'm appalled by government decisions, while maintaining that the attackers are not peaceful protesters. Because I know their actions that day. They abandoned the population – creating suffering for everyone because of their violent beliefs.

The Community Split

Sharing my story with those who defend what happened seems like failing the deceased. My local circle confronts unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned versus leadership throughout this period while experiencing betrayal again and again.

From the border, the ruin in Gaza is visible and emotional. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that various individuals seem to grant to the attackers causes hopelessness.