🔗 Share this article

It started on a morning looking entirely routine. I rode accompanied by my family to welcome a new puppy. The world appeared steady – before everything changed.

Opening my phone, I discovered news about the border region. I dialed my mother, expecting her cheerful voice saying she was safe. No answer. My father couldn't be reached. Next, my brother answered – his speech immediately revealed the devastating news before he explained.

The Developing Horror

I've observed so many people in media reports whose worlds were destroyed. Their gaze demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of tragedy were building, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My child looked at me from his screen. I relocated to contact people alone. When we got to the city, I would witness the brutal execution of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the militants who captured her home.

I recall believing: "Not a single of our loved ones could live through this."

Eventually, I witnessed recordings depicting flames consuming our family home. Nonetheless, in the following days, I denied the building was gone – before my family sent me visual confirmation.

The Consequences

Upon arriving at the station, I contacted the dog breeder. "Hostilities has begun," I told them. "My mother and father may not survive. Our kibbutz fell to by militants."

The return trip consisted of searching for community members while simultaneously shielding my child from the horrific images that circulated across platforms.

The images of that day exceeded any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son seized by armed militants. My former educator taken in the direction of the border in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. A senior community member likewise abducted into the territory. A woman I knew and her little boys – children I had played with – being rounded up by attackers, the fear in her eyes devastating.

The Long Wait

It felt endless for the military to come the area. Then started the terrible uncertainty for information. As time passed, a lone picture appeared depicting escapees. My mother and father were missing.

Over many days, while neighbors helped forensic teams identify victims, we scoured the internet for evidence of those missing. We saw torture and mutilation. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no indication regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Over time, the reality grew more distinct. My elderly parents – as well as dozens more – were taken hostage from their home. My father was 83, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, a quarter of our community members were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum left confinement. Prior to leaving, she looked back and shook hands of the militant. "Shalom," she spoke. That moment – an elemental act of humanity during unimaginable horror – was shared everywhere.

More than sixteen months following, my parent's physical presence were returned. He was murdered a short distance from our home.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts for the captives, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the initial trauma.

My family were lifelong advocates for peace. Mom continues, similar to many relatives. We understand that animosity and retaliation don't offer even momentary relief from this tragedy.

I compose these words amid sorrow. As time passes, discussing these events becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The children of my friends continue imprisoned along with the pressure of what followed is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I term focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We're used to discussing events to fight for the captives, despite sorrow feels like privilege we cannot afford – after 24 months, our campaign persists.

Not one word of this story is intended as support for conflict. I've always been against this conflict since it started. The population of Gaza have suffered unimaginably.

I am horrified by political choices, but I also insist that the militants cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Because I know their actions that day. They betrayed the population – ensuring tragedy on both sides due to their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story with people supporting the violence feels like betraying my dead. My community here faces rising hostility, and our people back home has struggled against its government throughout this period facing repeated disappointment again and again.

From the border, the destruction across the frontier appears clearly and emotional. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that various individuals seem willing to provide to the organizations makes me despair.