🔗 Share this article

It unfolded during that morning appearing entirely routine. I rode with my husband and son to pick up a new puppy. The world appeared predictable – then it all shifted.

Checking my device, I discovered updates about the border region. I dialed my mum, anticipating her cheerful voice explaining everything was fine. No answer. My parent couldn't be reached. Then, my sibling picked up – his speech immediately revealed the devastating news even as he spoke.

The Unfolding Tragedy

I've observed so many people on television whose worlds were torn apart. Their gaze revealing they didn't understand what they'd lost. Now it was me. The deluge of violence were rising, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My child watched me from his screen. I moved to reach out alone. By the time we arrived our destination, I encountered the horrific murder of a woman from my past – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the militants who took over her residence.

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

Later, I witnessed recordings showing fire bursting through our residence. Even then, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the building was gone – until my brothers provided images and proof.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at the city, I called the kennel owner. "Conflict has started," I told them. "My parents are probably dead. My community fell to by attackers."

The journey home consisted of attempting to reach loved ones while also protecting my son from the terrible visuals that circulated everywhere.

The scenes of that day were beyond any possible expectation. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by armed militants. Someone who taught me driven toward Gaza on a golf cart.

Friends sent Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. A senior community member similarly captured to Gaza. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the fear in her eyes stunning.

The Long Wait

It felt to take forever for help to arrive the kibbutz. Then began the agonizing wait for news. In the evening, a single image emerged depicting escapees. My parents were missing.

During the following period, as community members assisted investigators locate the missing, we combed online platforms for signs of our loved ones. We encountered brutality and violence. We never found recordings showing my parent – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Over time, the situation emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – along with dozens more – were abducted from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. In the chaos, a quarter of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my mum left confinement. Prior to leaving, she looked back and grasped the hand of the guard. "Peace," she uttered. That image – a basic human interaction amid indescribable tragedy – was transmitted worldwide.

Five hundred and two days following, Dad's body were returned. He was murdered just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and the visual proof continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our determined activism to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the primary pain.

My mother and father were lifelong peace activists. My parent remains, similar to most of my family. We recognize that hostility and vengeance won't provide any comfort from the pain.

I share these thoughts through tears. Over the months, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The young ones of my friends remain hostages with the burden of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I describe remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed discussing events to advocate for freedom, despite sorrow remains a luxury we lack – now, our work continues.

Not one word of this narrative serves as endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected this conflict from day one. The population in the territory experienced pain beyond imagination.

I am horrified by government decisions, while maintaining that the organization shouldn't be viewed as innocent activists. Since I witnessed their actions that day. They failed the population – causing suffering for everyone because of their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story with people supporting what happened appears as dishonoring the lost. My local circle confronts rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned versus leadership consistently and been betrayed repeatedly.

From the border, the destruction in Gaza is visible and emotional. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that numerous people seem to grant to the attackers makes me despair.