🔗 Share this article

It unfolded during that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I was traveling together with my loved ones to welcome a furry companion. Everything seemed steady – then everything changed.

Opening my phone, I saw reports concerning the frontier. I tried reaching my mum, expecting her reassuring tone saying everything was fine. Nothing. My father was also silent. Then, my brother answered – his tone instantly communicated the terrible truth prior to he explained.

The Developing Tragedy

I've witnessed numerous faces in media reports whose existence were destroyed. Their eyes demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of violence were building, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My child looked at me from his screen. I shifted to reach out separately. By the time we reached our destination, I saw the horrific murder of a woman from my past – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the militants who captured her house.

I remember thinking: "None of our loved ones would make it."

Later, I saw footage revealing blazes erupting from our family home. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – not until my family sent me images and proof.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at the station, I called the kennel owner. "A war has started," I said. "My mother and father are likely gone. Our kibbutz fell to by militants."

The ride back consisted of attempting to reach friends and family and at the same time shielding my child from the awful footage that circulated through networks.

The scenes of that day were beyond all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by multiple terrorists. My former educator transported to Gaza on a golf cart.

Individuals circulated social media clips that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured across the border. A young mother accompanied by her children – children I had played with – being rounded up by militants, the fear visible on her face paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt interminable for help to arrive the kibbutz. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for information. In the evening, a single image appeared of survivors. My mother and father weren't there.

During the following period, as community members assisted investigators identify victims, we combed digital spaces for evidence of family members. We saw torture and mutilation. There was no recordings showing my parent – no evidence about his final moments.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the reality emerged more fully. My aged family – as well as numerous community members – became captives from our kibbutz. My father was 83, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, 25 percent of the residents were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my mother left captivity. Before departing, she looked back and grasped the hand of her captor. "Shalom," she said. That moment – a basic human interaction amid unspeakable violence – was shared worldwide.

More than sixteen months following, my father's remains were returned. He was killed just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and the visual proof still terrorize me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign for the captives, Dad's terrible fate, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has worsened the initial trauma.

Both my parents had always been peace activists. My parent remains, as are most of my family. We know that animosity and retaliation cannot bring the slightest solace from our suffering.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. With each day, discussing these events becomes more difficult, rather than simpler. The kids belonging to companions remain hostages and the weight of what followed is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I describe remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We typically telling our experience to campaign for freedom, though grieving seems unaffordable we lack – now, our campaign persists.

Not one word of this narrative is intended as endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected hostilities from the beginning. The residents across the border endured tragedy terribly.

I'm shocked by leadership actions, but I also insist that the attackers cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Having seen what they did during those hours. They abandoned the population – causing suffering for everyone because of their violent beliefs.

The Community Split

Telling my truth with those who defend the violence seems like failing the deceased. The people around me confronts unprecedented antisemitism, and our people back home has struggled versus leadership for two years and been betrayed multiple times.

Across the fields, the devastation of the territory can be seen and visceral. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that many appear to offer to militant groups makes me despair.