🔗 Share this article

It started that morning appearing perfectly normal. I journeyed with my husband and son to welcome a furry companion. Life felt predictable – until it all shifted.

Checking my device, I saw news concerning the frontier. I called my parent, hoping for her reassuring tone saying she was safe. Silence. My parent didn't respond either. Next, I reached my brother – his voice instantly communicated the devastating news prior to he explained.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've observed so many people in media reports whose existence were torn apart. Their expressions revealing they didn't understand what they'd lost. Now it was me. The deluge of violence were overwhelming, and the debris was still swirling.

My young one watched me over his laptop. I relocated to contact people alone. When we got to the city, I encountered the horrific murder of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the terrorists who seized her home.

I remember thinking: "Not one of our friends would make it."

At some point, I saw footage revealing blazes consuming our residence. Nonetheless, in the following days, I refused to accept the building was gone – not until my brothers provided visual confirmation.

The Consequences

When we reached the city, I contacted the puppy provider. "Hostilities has erupted," I explained. "My family may not survive. My community has been taken over by militants."

The ride back involved trying to contact friends and family and at the same time protecting my son from the horrific images that were emerging through networks.

The footage during those hours transcended all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son seized by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of Gaza in a vehicle.

Friends sent Telegram videos that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend also taken to Gaza. A young mother accompanied by her children – children I had played with – captured by armed terrorists, the horror in her eyes devastating.

The Painful Period

It appeared to take forever for the military to come the area. Then started the painful anticipation for information. As time passed, a single image appeared showing those who made it. My parents were not among them.

Over many days, as friends worked with authorities locate the missing, we searched the internet for signs of family members. We saw atrocities and horrors. There was no footage of my father – no evidence about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the circumstances became clearer. My senior mother and father – together 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 the residents lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother was released from imprisonment. Before departing, she turned and offered a handshake of the guard. "Shalom," she said. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity during unimaginable horror – was broadcast globally.

More than sixteen months following, Dad's body came back. He died only kilometers from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and their documentation still terrorize me. The two years since – our determined activism to save hostages, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has compounded the initial trauma.

Both my parents had always been campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, similar to other loved ones. We know that hostility and vengeance won't provide the slightest solace from our suffering.

I compose these words through tears. Over the months, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, not easier. The children of my friends continue imprisoned along with the pressure of the aftermath feels heavy.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I term remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We're used to sharing our story to fight for hostage release, though grieving seems unaffordable we cannot afford – and two years later, our work persists.

Not one word of this account serves as endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected this conflict from day one. The population of Gaza have suffered unimaginably.

I'm shocked by political choices, yet emphasizing that the attackers cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Having seen their atrocities during those hours. They abandoned the population – ensuring pain for all due to their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth with those who defend the violence appears as failing the deceased. The people around me confronts rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought with the authorities consistently facing repeated disappointment multiple times.

Across the fields, the ruin of the territory is visible and visceral. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that numerous people seem willing to provide to militant groups makes me despair.