🔗 Share this article

It started on a morning looking entirely routine. I journeyed together with my loved ones to welcome a new puppy. Everything seemed steady – until it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I noticed news about the border region. I dialed my mother, hoping for her calm response saying they were secure. Nothing. My father didn't respond either. Next, my sibling picked up – his voice already told me the devastating news even as he said anything.

The Developing Horror

I've observed so many people on television whose lives had collapsed. Their expressions demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their loss. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of violence were overwhelming, and the debris was still swirling.

My child looked at me from his screen. I relocated to make calls separately. Once we arrived the city, I encountered the horrific murder of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the attackers who took over her residence.

I thought to myself: "Not one of our family will survive."

Later, I saw footage depicting flames erupting from our residence. Even then, later on, I refused to accept the house was destroyed – until my family sent me images and proof.

The Aftermath

Getting to the city, I phoned the dog breeder. "A war has erupted," I said. "My parents are probably dead. Our neighborhood fell to by militants."

The ride back was spent attempting to reach loved ones while simultaneously guarding my young one from the awful footage that spread across platforms.

The footage from that day were beyond anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by armed militants. Someone who taught me driven toward the territory using transportation.

Friends sent social media clips that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured into the territory. A woman I knew and her little boys – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by attackers, the terror visible on her face stunning.

The Painful Period

It seemed endless for the military to come the kibbutz. Then started the agonizing wait for updates. In the evening, a lone picture appeared depicting escapees. My family were missing.

For days and weeks, while neighbors worked with authorities document losses, we searched online platforms for evidence of those missing. We encountered brutality and violence. We never found recordings showing my parent – no indication about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the reality grew more distinct. My elderly parents – together with dozens more – became captives from their home. My father was 83, my other parent was elderly. In the chaos, one in four of our neighbors were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my mum emerged from confinement. Prior to leaving, she turned and shook hands of the militant. "Hello," she uttered. That image – a simple human connection within indescribable tragedy – was transmitted everywhere.

More than sixteen months following, my father's remains came back. He died a short distance from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. Everything that followed – our determined activism to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has worsened the primary pain.

My family remained campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, like other loved ones. We recognize that animosity and retaliation cannot bring any comfort from the pain.

I compose these words amid sorrow. Over the months, discussing these events becomes more difficult, not easier. The children of my friends remain hostages and the weight of what followed feels heavy.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I call remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We typically telling our experience to campaign for freedom, though grieving feels like privilege we lack – and two years later, our work endures.

Not one word of this story serves as justification for war. I continuously rejected hostilities from day one. The residents in the territory endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I am horrified by political choices, yet emphasizing that the militants are not innocent activists. Having seen their atrocities that day. They abandoned the population – creating tragedy on both sides through their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Sharing my story with those who defend the attackers' actions feels like dishonoring the lost. My community here experiences unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned versus leadership throughout this period while experiencing betrayal again and again.

Looking over, the destruction across the frontier can be seen and emotional. It appalls me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that many seem to grant to the organizations causes hopelessness.