🔗 Share this article

It began during that morning appearing entirely routine. I rode together with my loved ones to pick up our new dog. Everything seemed secure – before it all shifted.

Checking my device, I discovered news from the border. I called my mother, anticipating her reassuring tone telling me everything was fine. No answer. My father didn't respond either. Afterward, my brother answered – his voice instantly communicated the terrible truth before he spoke.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've observed countless individuals in media reports whose worlds had collapsed. Their eyes showing they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of tragedy were overwhelming, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My young one glanced toward me from his screen. I relocated to reach out in private. Once we arrived the city, I encountered the horrific murder of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the attackers who captured her home.

I thought to myself: "None of our family would make it."

Later, I viewed videos showing fire erupting from our family home. Nonetheless, later on, I couldn't believe the building was gone – until my family shared with me photographs and evidence.

The Consequences

Getting to the city, I phoned the puppy provider. "A war has started," I told them. "My parents may not survive. Our neighborhood fell to by militants."

The return trip was spent attempting to reach community members while simultaneously guarding my young one from the awful footage that were emerging everywhere.

The scenes of that day transcended anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by several attackers. Someone who taught me transported to Gaza on a golf cart.

Friends sent digital recordings appearing unbelievable. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured to Gaza. A young mother and her little boys – kids I recently saw – captured by militants, the horror apparent in her expression stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt to take forever for the military to come the kibbutz. Then began the terrible uncertainty for updates. Later that afternoon, a single image emerged of survivors. My mother and father weren't there.

For days and weeks, while neighbors helped forensic teams document losses, we scoured online platforms for traces of family members. We encountered atrocities and horrors. We never found recordings showing my parent – no evidence about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Over time, the reality became clearer. My elderly parents – as well as numerous community members – were abducted from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. During the violence, 25 percent of the residents lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my parent was released from imprisonment. As she left, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of her captor. "Peace," she uttered. That image – a simple human connection amid indescribable tragedy – was broadcast worldwide.

More than sixteen months afterward, Dad's body were recovered. He was murdered just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and the visual proof remain with me. The two years since – our desperate campaign to save hostages, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the original wound.

Both my parents remained peace activists. My parent remains, like most of my family. We recognize that hate and revenge don't offer the slightest solace from our suffering.

I compose these words while crying. With each day, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, rather than simpler. The children belonging to companions are still captive along with the pressure of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I describe remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We're used to telling our experience to fight for hostage release, though grieving remains a luxury we cannot afford – after 24 months, our campaign persists.

Not one word of this story serves as justification for war. I've always been against this conflict from day one. The people across the border have suffered unimaginably.

I am horrified by government decisions, but I also insist that the attackers shouldn't be viewed as innocent activists. Having seen their atrocities that day. They abandoned their own people – creating tragedy on both sides through their violent beliefs.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story with those who defend the violence seems like failing the deceased. My community here faces growing prejudice, while my community there has struggled against its government consistently facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

Looking over, the devastation in Gaza appears clearly and visceral. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that many seem willing to provide to the organizations creates discouragement.