🔗 Share this article

It started that morning that seemed entirely routine. I journeyed accompanied by my family to collect a furry companion. Everything seemed secure – until reality shattered.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered reports about the border region. I dialed my mum, expecting her cheerful voice explaining they were secure. Nothing. My dad couldn't be reached. Then, I reached my brother – his speech already told me the awful reality even as he said anything.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've seen so many people through news coverage whose lives had collapsed. Their gaze showing they couldn't comprehend their loss. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of tragedy were rising, and the debris hadn't settled.

My son watched me over his laptop. I relocated to reach out alone. When we got to the city, I would witness the brutal execution of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the attackers who seized her house.

I recall believing: "None of our family will survive."

Eventually, I saw footage showing fire bursting through our residence. Even then, later on, I couldn't believe the home had burned – until my family sent me photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

Getting to the city, I phoned the puppy provider. "Hostilities has started," I said. "My family may not survive. Our kibbutz was captured by attackers."

The ride back consisted of searching for loved ones while simultaneously shielding my child from the terrible visuals that were emerging through networks.

The footage of that day transcended all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son captured by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher transported to the border using transportation.

Friends sent social media clips that defied reality. A senior community member likewise abducted across the border. A young mother accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by militants, the terror apparent in her expression stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It seemed to take forever for assistance to reach the area. Then commenced the painful anticipation for news. Later that afternoon, one photograph emerged depicting escapees. My mother and father were not among them.

For days and weeks, as community members helped forensic teams identify victims, we scoured online platforms for traces of those missing. We encountered torture and mutilation. There was no recordings showing my parent – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the situation emerged more fully. My elderly parents – along with numerous community members – were taken hostage from the community. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, one in four of our community members were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent was released from imprisonment. As she left, she turned and offered a handshake of the militant. "Shalom," she spoke. That moment – a simple human connection within indescribable tragedy – was shared everywhere.

Five hundred and two days afterward, my parent's physical presence came back. He was murdered just two miles from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the visual proof remain with me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts for the captives, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the initial trauma.

My mother and father had always been advocates for peace. Mom continues, as are other loved ones. We understand that animosity and retaliation don't offer the slightest solace from our suffering.

I compose these words through tears. With each day, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The kids from my community continue imprisoned with the burden of what followed remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I call remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We typically telling our experience to fight for freedom, despite sorrow feels like privilege we cannot afford – now, our work continues.

No part of this narrative is intended as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed this conflict from day one. The people across the border experienced pain unimaginably.

I am horrified by government decisions, while maintaining that the attackers shouldn't be viewed as innocent activists. Because I know their actions on October 7th. They betrayed the population – ensuring tragedy on both sides because of their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Sharing my story with those who defend what happened appears as failing the deceased. My community here faces rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled against its government consistently and been betrayed multiple times.

From the border, the destruction of the territory is visible and painful. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that numerous people appear to offer to the attackers makes me despair.