🔗 Share this article

It began during that morning looking entirely routine. I journeyed together with my loved ones to pick up a furry companion. Life felt steady – until everything changed.

Opening my phone, I saw news concerning the frontier. I tried reaching my parent, hoping for her calm response saying they were secure. Nothing. My father was also silent. Afterward, I reached my brother – his tone immediately revealed the terrible truth even as he explained.

The Developing Horror

I've witnessed so many people through news coverage whose worlds were destroyed. Their eyes showing they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The torrent of horror were building, amid the destruction was still swirling.

My son watched me across the seat. I relocated to make calls in private. When we got to the station, I would witness the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the militants who took over her house.

I remember thinking: "None of our loved ones could live through this."

Later, I viewed videos depicting flames consuming our house. Nonetheless, in the following days, I denied the building was gone – until my family shared with me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Getting to the station, I called the dog breeder. "Conflict has erupted," I said. "My parents may not survive. My community was captured by attackers."

The journey home consisted of searching for loved ones and at the same time guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that circulated through networks.

The images of that day transcended anything we could imagine. A child from our community captured by multiple terrorists. My former educator taken in the direction of the territory in a vehicle.

Friends sent digital recordings that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion also taken into the territory. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – children I had played with – captured by armed terrorists, the fear in her eyes paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It felt to take forever for assistance to reach our community. Then began the agonizing wait for updates. In the evening, a lone picture appeared showing those who made it. My mother and father were missing.

During the following period, while neighbors helped forensic teams document losses, we scoured digital spaces for evidence of our loved ones. We witnessed torture and mutilation. There was no footage of my father – no indication regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the situation became clearer. My aged family – as well as dozens more – were abducted from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. During the violence, one in four of the residents were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my parent left imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she looked back and shook hands of the guard. "Shalom," she uttered. That image – a basic human interaction during unimaginable horror – was shared worldwide.

Over 500 days afterward, my parent's physical presence came back. He was killed only kilometers from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These experiences and the visual proof continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our determined activism to save hostages, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has intensified the primary pain.

My family remained advocates for peace. My mother still is, similar to most of my family. We understand that hostility and vengeance won't provide even momentary relief from the pain.

I compose these words through tears. Over the months, discussing these events becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The children of my friends are still captive along with the pressure of what followed remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I describe remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed discussing events to campaign for freedom, though grieving feels like privilege we don't have – after 24 months, our efforts persists.

Not one word of this account serves as endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected the fighting since it started. The people across the border endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I'm shocked by political choices, while maintaining that the attackers cannot be considered innocent activists. Having seen their atrocities on October 7th. They betrayed the community – creating pain for all because of their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story among individuals justifying the violence appears as failing the deceased. My local circle experiences growing prejudice, and our people back home has campaigned against its government for two years facing repeated disappointment multiple times.

Looking over, the devastation of the territory is visible and painful. It appalls me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that many appear to offer to the organizations causes hopelessness.