🔗 Share this article

It unfolded during that morning looking entirely routine. I journeyed together with my loved ones to pick up our new dog. The world appeared predictable – until it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I saw news concerning the frontier. I called my parent, anticipating her reassuring tone explaining everything was fine. Silence. My dad didn't respond either. Next, I reached my brother – his tone already told me the devastating news even as he spoke.

The Unfolding Tragedy

I've witnessed so many people in media reports whose existence had collapsed. Their expressions showing they didn't understand their tragedy. Now it was me. The deluge of violence were building, and the debris hadn't settled.

My son watched me across the seat. I moved to contact people alone. Once we arrived our destination, I would witness the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – shown in real-time by the militants who took over her residence.

I recall believing: "Not one of our family would make it."

At some point, I saw footage showing fire erupting from our house. Nonetheless, later on, I couldn't believe the home had burned – not until my brothers provided visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

When we reached the city, I contacted the puppy provider. "Conflict has begun," I told them. "My parents may not survive. Our neighborhood fell to by terrorists."

The journey home consisted of trying to contact friends and family while also protecting my son from the horrific images that spread everywhere.

The scenes of that day transcended any possible expectation. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me taken in the direction of Gaza in a vehicle.

Friends sent digital recordings that defied reality. A senior community member also taken across the border. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – seized by attackers, the fear apparent in her expression devastating.

The Long Wait

It seemed endless for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for updates. As time passed, a single image emerged depicting escapees. My mother and father were missing.

Over many days, as friends helped forensic teams identify victims, we combed the internet for evidence of family members. We saw brutality and violence. There was no recordings showing my parent – no indication regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the circumstances grew more distinct. My aged family – together with numerous community members – were abducted from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. During the violence, a quarter of the residents were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum left confinement. As she left, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of the militant. "Shalom," she spoke. That gesture – a simple human connection within unimaginable horror – was transmitted worldwide.

Over 500 days following, Dad's body were returned. He died a short distance from our home.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign to save hostages, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the original wound.

Both my parents remained peace activists. Mom continues, like most of my family. We recognize that hate and revenge won't provide any comfort from this tragedy.

I compose these words through tears. With each day, sharing the experience grows harder, rather than simpler. The kids of my friends continue imprisoned with the burden of the aftermath feels heavy.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I describe dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed sharing our story to advocate for the captives, despite sorrow seems unaffordable we cannot afford – after 24 months, our work continues.

Nothing of this story serves as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed this conflict from day one. The people of Gaza have suffered beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by government decisions, while maintaining that the organization cannot be considered innocent activists. Because I know their actions during those hours. They failed the population – ensuring pain for all through their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story among individuals justifying the attackers' actions appears as betraying my dead. My local circle confronts unprecedented antisemitism, while my community there has campaigned versus leadership consistently while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

Looking over, the destruction in Gaza can be seen and painful. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that various individuals seem to grant to the attackers causes hopelessness.