🔗 Share this article

It unfolded during that morning appearing entirely routine. I journeyed accompanied by my family to welcome our new dog. Life felt secure – until it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I saw updates from the border. I dialed my parent, anticipating her calm response telling me everything was fine. Silence. My dad didn't respond either. Next, my sibling picked up – his speech immediately revealed the awful reality even as he said anything.

The Developing Nightmare

I've witnessed numerous faces in media reports whose lives had collapsed. Their eyes showing they didn't understand their tragedy. Now it was me. The deluge of horror were building, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My child watched me from his screen. I relocated to reach out separately. When we reached the city, I saw the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the militants who seized her residence.

I thought to myself: "Not a single of our friends would make it."

Later, I viewed videos depicting flames erupting from our house. Even then, for days afterward, I denied the home had burned – until my family shared with me visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at the city, I called the puppy provider. "A war has begun," I explained. "My mother and father may not survive. Our neighborhood has been taken over by militants."

The return trip consisted of attempting to reach community members while also guarding my young one from the horrific images that spread through networks.

The scenes during those hours exceeded all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son taken by multiple terrorists. My former educator driven toward Gaza on a golf cart.

Friends sent Telegram videos that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend also taken to Gaza. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – seized by armed terrorists, the fear apparent in her expression stunning.

The Painful Period

It seemed interminable for the military to come the kibbutz. Then commenced the painful anticipation for news. As time passed, a lone picture circulated depicting escapees. My parents were not among them.

During the following period, as community members helped forensic teams identify victims, we combed digital spaces for traces of our loved ones. We encountered torture and mutilation. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no indication regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the circumstances grew more distinct. My aged family – along with 74 others – became captives from their home. My father was 83, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, one in four of the residents were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother was released from confinement. As she left, she looked back and grasped the hand of the guard. "Shalom," she said. That image – a basic human interaction amid unspeakable violence – was transmitted everywhere.

Over 500 days afterward, my father's remains were recovered. He died just two miles from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the original wound.

My family had always been peace activists. My mother still is, similar to other loved ones. We know that hostility and vengeance cannot bring the slightest solace from this tragedy.

I compose these words amid sorrow. Over the months, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, rather than simpler. The kids of my friends continue imprisoned and the weight of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I describe focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed sharing our story to advocate for hostage release, while mourning remains a luxury we don't have – after 24 months, our campaign persists.

No part of this story is intended as justification for war. I've always been against hostilities from day one. The people across the border have suffered unimaginably.

I'm shocked by political choices, but I also insist that the attackers cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Because I know what they did that day. They failed the population – ensuring tragedy on both sides because of their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying what happened appears as betraying my dead. My local circle confronts rising hostility, while my community there has campaigned versus leadership for two years while experiencing betrayal again and again.

Looking over, the ruin of the territory appears clearly and visceral. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that many appear to offer to militant groups causes hopelessness.