🔗 Share this article

It began on a morning that seemed completely ordinary. I rode together with my loved ones to welcome a furry companion. The world appeared predictable – then everything changed.

Glancing at my screen, I saw updates about the border region. I called my mother, anticipating her cheerful voice telling me they were secure. Silence. My dad was also silent. Then, I reached my brother – his tone already told me the devastating news even as he said anything.

The Emerging Horror

I've observed numerous faces on television whose worlds were destroyed. Their eyes demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of violence were overwhelming, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My son glanced toward me over his laptop. I shifted to make calls separately. By the time we got to our destination, I encountered the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the attackers who captured her house.

I recall believing: "Not one of our friends will survive."

Eventually, I saw footage showing fire consuming our residence. Despite this, in the following days, I denied the house was destroyed – not until my siblings sent me images and proof.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at the city, I called the puppy provider. "Conflict has started," I explained. "My parents are likely gone. Our neighborhood was captured by attackers."

The journey home was spent searching for community members while also protecting my son from the horrific images that circulated through networks.

The footage of that day exceeded any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son seized by armed militants. Someone who taught me taken in the direction of Gaza using transportation.

People shared social media clips that defied reality. A senior community member also taken across the border. A woman I knew and her little boys – boys I knew well – captured by armed terrorists, the horror visible on her face devastating.

The Painful Period

It appeared endless for help to arrive the area. Then began the terrible uncertainty for news. As time passed, a single image circulated of survivors. My mother and father weren't there.

During the following period, as friends worked with authorities locate the missing, we searched the internet for signs of our loved ones. We encountered atrocities and horrors. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the circumstances grew more distinct. My elderly parents – together with 74 others – were taken hostage from their home. My parent was in his eighties, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, a quarter of the residents were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother was released from captivity. As she left, she looked back and shook hands of the militant. "Peace," she said. That gesture – a basic human interaction during unimaginable horror – was transmitted globally.

More than sixteen months following, my parent's physical presence came back. He was killed a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These experiences and their documentation still terrorize me. The two years since – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the primary pain.

Both my parents were lifelong advocates for peace. Mom continues, similar to most of my family. We know that animosity and retaliation don't offer any comfort from the pain.

I compose these words amid sorrow. Over the months, discussing these events grows harder, not easier. The kids belonging to companions continue imprisoned along with the pressure of what followed remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I term remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We're used to telling our experience to advocate for the captives, while mourning seems unaffordable we cannot afford – after 24 months, our work endures.

Nothing of this narrative represents support for conflict. I have consistently opposed this conflict from day one. The residents across the border have suffered beyond imagination.

I am horrified by political choices, while maintaining that the militants are not benign resistance fighters. Having seen their atrocities on October 7th. They abandoned the population – causing pain for all due to their violent beliefs.

The Community Split

Sharing my story with people supporting the attackers' actions appears as betraying my dead. My local circle experiences rising hostility, while my community there has struggled with the authorities consistently and been betrayed repeatedly.

Across the fields, the devastation of the territory can be seen and painful. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the moral carte blanche that many appear to offer to the organizations makes me despair.