🔗 Share this article

It unfolded on a morning appearing perfectly normal. I journeyed together with my loved ones to collect our new dog. The world appeared predictable – before reality shattered.

Opening my phone, I discovered reports from the border. I dialed my mum, hoping for her cheerful voice explaining they were secure. Silence. My father didn't respond either. Then, my brother answered – his speech already told me the terrible truth prior to he explained.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've observed numerous faces through news coverage whose existence had collapsed. Their expressions demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of violence were overwhelming, and the debris remained chaotic.

My child glanced toward me from his screen. I moved to reach out alone. Once we arrived the city, I saw the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – shown in real-time by the terrorists who seized her house.

I thought to myself: "None of our loved ones could live through this."

Eventually, I saw footage revealing blazes erupting from our house. Despite this, later on, I denied the house was destroyed – not until my siblings provided images and proof.

The Aftermath

When we reached the city, I phoned the puppy provider. "A war has started," I said. "My family are probably dead. Our neighborhood was captured by terrorists."

The journey home was spent trying to contact friends and family while simultaneously shielding my child from the terrible visuals that spread across platforms.

The footage from that day transcended anything we could imagine. A child from our community taken by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me driven toward the territory in a vehicle.

Friends sent social media clips appearing unbelievable. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured into the territory. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – being rounded up by attackers, the horror visible on her face stunning.

The Painful Period

It seemed interminable for the military to come the area. Then began the terrible uncertainty for news. In the evening, one photograph emerged of survivors. My mother and father were missing.

For days and weeks, as friends helped forensic teams document losses, we searched online platforms for traces of family members. We encountered torture and mutilation. There was no recordings showing my parent – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Over time, the reality became clearer. My elderly parents – as well as numerous community members – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my mother 85. In the chaos, a quarter of the residents were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mum was released from imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of the militant. "Shalom," she said. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity amid unspeakable violence – was shared worldwide.

Five hundred and two days later, Dad's body were recovered. He was murdered just two miles from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These experiences and their documentation continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts for the captives, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has intensified the primary pain.

My family remained advocates for peace. My parent remains, similar to other loved ones. We know that animosity and retaliation don't offer 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 young ones belonging to companions continue imprisoned along with the pressure of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I describe focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We're used to telling our experience to fight for the captives, despite sorrow feels like privilege we lack – now, our efforts continues.

No part of this account is intended as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed the fighting from the beginning. The population of Gaza endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by leadership actions, but I also insist that the attackers are not benign resistance fighters. Because I know their actions on October 7th. They failed the community – ensuring suffering for everyone through their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Telling my truth with those who defend the violence seems like betraying my dead. The people around me faces unprecedented antisemitism, while my community there has fought against its government consistently and been betrayed multiple times.

Across the fields, the destruction of the territory is visible and emotional. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that numerous people seem to grant to the organizations makes me despair.