🔗 Share this article

It unfolded on a morning appearing entirely routine. I rode together with my loved ones to collect our new dog. Life felt steady – until everything changed.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed news about the border region. I tried reaching my mum, expecting her reassuring tone explaining she was safe. Nothing. My parent couldn't be reached. Then, I reached my brother – his speech already told me the devastating news even as he spoke.

The Developing Nightmare

I've seen countless individuals in media reports whose existence were destroyed. Their expressions showing they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The torrent of horror were building, and the debris remained chaotic.

My child watched me over his laptop. I moved to make calls alone. By the time we arrived our destination, I would witness the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the attackers who captured her house.

I thought to myself: "None of our loved ones would make it."

Later, I saw footage depicting flames consuming our residence. Even then, in the following days, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – before my siblings shared with me photographs and evidence.

The Consequences

Getting to our destination, I phoned the puppy provider. "Conflict has started," I told them. "My family may not survive. My community was captured by militants."

The return trip consisted of searching for community members while simultaneously protecting my son from the awful footage that spread across platforms.

The scenes from that day transcended anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son captured by several attackers. My former educator driven toward Gaza in a vehicle.

Friends sent Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. A senior community member also taken to Gaza. A young mother and her little boys – kids I recently saw – captured by armed terrorists, the terror visible on her face paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It seemed interminable for the military to come our community. Then started the agonizing wait for updates. Later that afternoon, a single image circulated showing those who made it. My mother and father were not among them.

During the following period, as friends worked with authorities document losses, we combed online platforms for signs of those missing. We encountered atrocities and horrors. There was no recordings showing my parent – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Over time, the reality became clearer. My elderly parents – as well as 74 others – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, a quarter of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my parent left captivity. Before departing, she looked back and grasped the hand of the militant. "Peace," she uttered. That image – an elemental act of humanity during unspeakable violence – was broadcast globally.

More than sixteen months afterward, Dad's body came back. He was murdered only kilometers from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These experiences and their documentation still terrorize me. The two years since – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has worsened the initial trauma.

Both my parents had always been advocates for peace. Mom continues, similar to most of my family. We recognize that hate and revenge cannot bring even momentary relief from the pain.

I compose these words through tears. With each day, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The young ones from my community are still captive and the weight of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I describe focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We're used to sharing our story to advocate for hostage release, while mourning remains a luxury we lack – now, our work persists.

Not one word of this story represents justification for war. I've always been against the fighting from day one. The residents in the territory have suffered unimaginably.

I'm shocked by political choices, while maintaining that the militants are not innocent activists. Because I know their atrocities on October 7th. They abandoned the community – ensuring tragedy on both sides through their violent beliefs.

The Community Split

Telling my truth among individuals justifying what happened feels like dishonoring the lost. My local circle experiences rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned against its government throughout this period while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

Across the fields, the ruin in Gaza appears clearly and emotional. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the moral carte blanche that many seem willing to provide to the organizations creates discouragement.