🔗 Share this article

It started during that morning appearing perfectly normal. I rode accompanied by my family to collect a furry companion. The world appeared predictable – until reality shattered.

Checking my device, I discovered updates from the border. I dialed my mum, hoping for her reassuring tone explaining they were secure. Silence. My parent didn't respond either. Then, my sibling picked up – his speech instantly communicated the devastating news prior to he said anything.

The Developing Tragedy

I've witnessed so many people on television whose lives had collapsed. Their gaze demonstrating they didn't understand their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of tragedy were rising, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My son looked at me across the seat. I shifted to reach out alone. When we reached the station, I saw the brutal execution of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the terrorists who took over her house.

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

Eventually, I saw footage showing fire erupting from our family home. Despite this, later on, I denied the building was gone – not until my brothers provided photographs and evidence.

The Consequences

Upon arriving at the city, I phoned the kennel owner. "Hostilities has started," I said. "My family are probably dead. Our kibbutz fell to by attackers."

The journey home was spent trying to contact community members while also protecting my son from the horrific images that circulated everywhere.

The scenes from that day transcended anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by armed militants. My former educator transported to Gaza using transportation.

Friends sent social media clips that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion likewise abducted into the territory. A young mother and her little boys – boys I knew well – captured by militants, the terror in her eyes paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It appeared endless for help to arrive the kibbutz. Then began the painful anticipation for news. In the evening, a single image appeared depicting escapees. My mother and father were missing.

For days and weeks, as friends worked with authorities document losses, we searched online platforms for evidence of those missing. We witnessed brutality and violence. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no clue regarding his experience.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the reality became clearer. My aged family – together with dozens more – became captives from the community. My parent was in his eighties, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, one in four of the residents lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my parent emerged from captivity. Before departing, she looked back and offered a handshake of her captor. "Hello," she spoke. That gesture – a simple human connection within unspeakable violence – was shared everywhere.

More than sixteen months following, my parent's physical presence came back. He was murdered only kilometers from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and the visual proof continue to haunt me. The two years since – our determined activism for the captives, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the primary pain.

My family were lifelong peace activists. Mom continues, as are most of my family. We recognize that animosity and retaliation won't provide the slightest solace from our suffering.

I share these thoughts through tears. Over the months, talking about what happened grows harder, not easier. The kids of my friends remain hostages and the weight of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I call dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We're used to sharing our story to fight for hostage release, while mourning feels like privilege we don't have – after 24 months, our campaign continues.

Nothing of this narrative is intended as endorsement of violence. I've always been against hostilities since it started. The population of Gaza experienced pain unimaginably.

I'm shocked by government decisions, while maintaining that the attackers cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed what they did on October 7th. They betrayed the community – causing suffering for everyone due to their deadly philosophy.

The Community Split

Telling my truth among individuals justifying the violence seems like betraying my dead. My community here confronts rising hostility, and our people back home has fought against its government for two years while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

Looking over, the destruction across the frontier appears clearly and painful. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that many seem willing to provide to militant groups makes me despair.