🔗 Share this article

It unfolded that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I journeyed together with my loved ones to welcome our new dog. The world appeared secure – before it all shifted.

Checking my device, I discovered updates concerning the frontier. I tried reaching my mother, hoping for her reassuring tone telling me everything was fine. No answer. My dad didn't respond either. Afterward, I reached my brother – his tone immediately revealed the terrible truth before he spoke.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've observed countless individuals through news coverage whose worlds had collapsed. Their gaze revealing they hadn't yet processed their loss. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of horror were building, and the debris remained chaotic.

My son watched me across the seat. I shifted to contact people in private. When we arrived the city, I saw the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the terrorists who captured her home.

I remember thinking: "Not a single of our family will survive."

Later, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes consuming our house. Despite this, for days afterward, I denied the house was destroyed – not until my family provided photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

When we reached the station, I phoned the kennel owner. "Hostilities has started," I said. "My mother and father are probably dead. My community was captured by attackers."

The return trip consisted of attempting to reach community members while also guarding my young one from the horrific images that spread through networks.

The images from that day exceeded any possible expectation. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by several attackers. Someone who taught me driven toward Gaza on a golf cart.

Individuals circulated social media clips that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion likewise abducted across the border. A woman I knew with her two small sons – boys I knew well – captured by militants, the horror in her eyes devastating.

The Painful Period

It seemed endless for help to arrive the area. Then started the terrible uncertainty for information. In the evening, a lone picture circulated depicting escapees. My mother and father weren't there.

During the following period, as community members helped forensic teams locate the missing, we searched digital spaces for signs of our loved ones. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Over time, the circumstances became clearer. My senior mother and father – along with 74 others – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, a quarter of the residents were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mum left imprisonment. Before departing, she turned and grasped the hand of her captor. "Peace," she spoke. That moment – an elemental act of humanity during indescribable tragedy – was transmitted worldwide.

Five hundred and two days following, my parent's physical presence came back. He was murdered just two miles from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the recorded evidence remain with me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has compounded the original wound.

Both my parents were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. My parent remains, as are other loved ones. We know that hostility and vengeance cannot bring any comfort from the pain.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. Over the months, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, not easier. The young ones belonging to companions continue imprisoned along with the pressure of what followed is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I call remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We're used to sharing our story to fight for hostage release, despite sorrow seems unaffordable we don't have – now, our efforts endures.

Not one word of this narrative represents support for conflict. I've always been against the fighting from day one. The residents across the border endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by political choices, yet emphasizing that the militants shouldn't be viewed as innocent activists. Since I witnessed their atrocities that day. They abandoned the population – ensuring suffering for everyone due to their deadly philosophy.

The Community Split

Telling my truth among individuals justifying the attackers' actions appears as betraying my dead. The people around me confronts rising hostility, and our people back home has struggled with the authorities consistently and been betrayed multiple times.

Across the fields, the destruction of the territory can be seen and visceral. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that numerous people seem willing to provide to militant groups creates discouragement.