🔗 Share this article

It began on a morning that seemed entirely routine. I was traveling together with my loved ones to collect a new puppy. The world appeared predictable – until it all shifted.

Checking my device, I discovered news about the border region. I called my mother, expecting her reassuring tone telling me she was safe. Silence. My dad was also silent. Next, my sibling picked up – his voice immediately revealed the terrible truth before he spoke.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've seen countless individuals through news coverage whose lives were destroyed. Their gaze demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The torrent of horror were rising, and the debris hadn't settled.

My son watched me across the seat. I relocated to make calls in private. Once we got to the city, I saw the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the terrorists who captured her residence.

I recall believing: "Not one of our friends could live through this."

Later, I viewed videos depicting flames bursting through our family home. Despite this, in the following days, I denied the building was gone – until my siblings shared with me visual confirmation.

The Consequences

When we reached the station, I called the puppy provider. "A war has started," I explained. "My parents are probably dead. My community was captured by militants."

The return trip was spent attempting to reach community members and at the same time shielding my child from the terrible visuals that were emerging everywhere.

The scenes of that day were beyond anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son seized by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me transported to the border on a golf cart.

Friends sent digital recordings that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion also taken into the territory. A woman I knew with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the fear visible on her face devastating.

The Long Wait

It appeared endless for help to arrive the kibbutz. Then began the painful anticipation for news. In the evening, one photograph emerged of survivors. My parents were missing.

During the following period, as friends helped forensic teams document losses, we combed online platforms for traces of those missing. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no evidence about his final moments.

The Developing Reality

Over time, the situation emerged more fully. My elderly parents – together with 74 others – were taken hostage from the community. My father was 83, my mother 85. During the violence, one in four of our neighbors were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my parent emerged from imprisonment. Before departing, she turned and grasped the hand of the militant. "Peace," she spoke. That image – a simple human connection within unimaginable horror – was transmitted everywhere.

Five hundred and two days following, my parent's physical presence came back. He was killed just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These events and the visual proof continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign for the captives, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has compounded the original wound.

My mother and father had always been advocates for peace. Mom continues, like many relatives. We understand that animosity and retaliation cannot bring the slightest solace from our suffering.

I write this amid sorrow. With each day, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The young ones belonging to companions continue imprisoned and the weight of what followed remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I describe dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We're used to telling our experience to campaign for hostage release, while mourning feels like privilege we lack – and two years later, our work persists.

Nothing of this account serves as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed hostilities from the beginning. The residents of Gaza endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I am horrified by government decisions, while maintaining that the organization cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed their atrocities on October 7th. They betrayed their own people – causing suffering for everyone because of their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying the violence seems like dishonoring the lost. The people around me faces rising hostility, while my community there has fought versus leadership for two years and been betrayed multiple times.

Looking over, the devastation across the frontier appears clearly and visceral. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that numerous people seem to grant to the attackers makes me despair.