🔗 Share this article

It started on a morning looking completely ordinary. I was traveling accompanied by my family to pick up a furry companion. The world appeared secure – before reality shattered.

Opening my phone, I discovered updates concerning the frontier. I dialed my parent, hoping for her reassuring tone telling me she was safe. No answer. My father was also silent. Next, my brother answered – his tone instantly communicated the awful reality before he spoke.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've observed countless individuals in media reports whose existence were destroyed. Their expressions demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their loss. Now it was me. The floodwaters of violence were rising, with the wreckage remained chaotic.

My young one watched me across the seat. I shifted to make calls alone. Once we got to the city, I encountered the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the militants who captured her home.

I thought to myself: "Not a single of our loved ones would make it."

Later, I witnessed recordings depicting flames erupting from our family home. Nonetheless, later on, I denied the house was destroyed – not until my brothers sent me photographs and evidence.

The Consequences

When we reached the city, I contacted the dog breeder. "Hostilities has started," I told them. "My family are probably dead. Our kibbutz has been taken over by militants."

The journey home involved searching for friends and family while also shielding my child from the awful footage that spread across platforms.

The scenes from that day transcended anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son taken by multiple terrorists. My former educator taken in the direction of the territory in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted into the territory. A woman I knew accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – seized by armed terrorists, the fear apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It seemed interminable for assistance to reach the area. Then started the terrible uncertainty for information. As time passed, a lone picture emerged of survivors. My parents weren't there.

For days and weeks, as community members helped forensic teams locate the missing, we scoured digital spaces for traces of our loved ones. We saw torture and mutilation. We never found recordings showing my parent – no indication regarding his experience.

The Emerging Picture

Over time, the situation grew more distinct. My senior mother and father – along with 74 others – became captives from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. During the violence, one in four of our community members were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my mum left captivity. As she left, she turned and shook hands of the guard. "Hello," she spoke. That moment – a simple human connection within indescribable tragedy – was shared worldwide.

Over 500 days afterward, my parent's physical presence came back. He died only kilometers from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism for the captives, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the original wound.

Both my parents had always been advocates for peace. My mother still is, similar to other loved ones. We recognize that hostility and vengeance cannot bring any comfort from this tragedy.

I write this amid sorrow. As time passes, talking about what happened grows harder, not easier. The young ones from my community remain hostages with the burden of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I describe remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed telling our experience to campaign for hostage release, though grieving feels like privilege we don't have – and two years later, our efforts continues.

No part of this narrative represents endorsement of violence. I've always been against hostilities from the beginning. The people across the border endured tragedy unimaginably.

I am horrified by political choices, yet emphasizing that the militants cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Because I know what they did that day. They betrayed their own people – causing pain for all due to their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience with people supporting what happened feels like dishonoring the lost. The people around me experiences rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled with the authorities throughout this period facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

From the border, the devastation across the frontier appears clearly and emotional. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that various individuals seem to grant to the organizations creates discouragement.