🔗 Share this article

It started during that morning appearing completely ordinary. I journeyed together with my loved ones to welcome a new puppy. Life felt steady – then reality shattered.

Opening my phone, I discovered news concerning the frontier. I called my parent, anticipating her calm response telling me everything was fine. Silence. My dad couldn't be reached. Afterward, I reached my brother – his voice immediately revealed the devastating news even as he said anything.

The Developing Tragedy

I've seen countless individuals through news coverage whose existence were destroyed. Their eyes demonstrating they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Now it was me. The deluge of tragedy were rising, and the debris remained chaotic.

My son looked at me over his laptop. I moved to reach out in private. When we reached the station, I would witness the horrific murder of a woman from my past – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the militants who took over her house.

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

Eventually, I saw footage revealing blazes consuming our house. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I denied the house was destroyed – not until my siblings sent me photographs and evidence.

The Consequences

When we reached the station, I contacted the dog breeder. "Conflict has started," I said. "My mother and father may not survive. Our kibbutz was captured by militants."

The ride back was spent attempting to reach community members and at the same time protecting my son from the horrific images that spread everywhere.

The footage during those hours transcended all comprehension. A child from our community captured by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher driven toward Gaza using transportation.

Friends sent social media clips that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion also taken across the border. A young mother with her two small sons – children I had played with – seized by armed terrorists, the terror apparent in her expression stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt interminable for the military to come the area. Then commenced the agonizing wait for information. As time passed, a single image emerged depicting escapees. My mother and father weren't there.

Over many days, as friends helped forensic teams document losses, we scoured the internet for evidence of family members. We encountered atrocities and horrors. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the reality became clearer. My aged family – together with dozens more – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, one in four of our neighbors were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother was released from confinement. As she left, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of the guard. "Shalom," she uttered. That image – an elemental act of humanity within unspeakable violence – was broadcast worldwide.

Over 500 days following, my father's remains were recovered. He was killed only kilometers from our home.

The Continuing Trauma

These experiences and the visual proof remain with me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the destruction across the border – has worsened the initial trauma.

My family were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. My parent remains, as are many relatives. We recognize that hate and revenge don't offer even momentary relief from the pain.

I compose these words amid sorrow. Over the months, talking about what happened grows harder, instead of improving. The young ones belonging to companions are still captive and the weight of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I describe remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We're used to sharing our story to campaign for freedom, while mourning remains a luxury we cannot afford – now, our work continues.

No part of this story represents justification for war. I continuously rejected the fighting from the beginning. The residents across the border experienced pain terribly.

I'm appalled by government decisions, but I also insist that the militants cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Having seen what they did during those hours. They betrayed the community – creating tragedy on both sides through their deadly philosophy.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying the violence feels like betraying my dead. The people around me confronts rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought versus leadership consistently and been betrayed again and again.

Looking over, the destruction of the territory can be seen and painful. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that many appear to offer to the organizations creates discouragement.