🔗 Share this article

It unfolded that morning that seemed entirely routine. I journeyed with my husband and son to pick up a furry companion. Life felt steady – until reality shattered.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered news from the border. I tried reaching my mum, hoping for her calm response saying everything was fine. No answer. My dad was also silent. Next, I reached my brother – his speech instantly communicated the awful reality before he said anything.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've observed numerous faces on television whose worlds had collapsed. Their eyes demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of tragedy were rising, with the wreckage remained chaotic.

My child looked at me from his screen. I moved to reach out alone. Once we got to the city, I encountered the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the attackers who captured her home.

I remember thinking: "Not a single of our loved ones will survive."

Eventually, I saw footage depicting flames consuming our family home. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the home had burned – not until my brothers shared with me visual confirmation.

The Consequences

Upon arriving at the city, I contacted the puppy provider. "A war has erupted," I explained. "My family are probably dead. Our kibbutz has been taken over by militants."

The journey home consisted of trying to contact community members while also protecting my son from the horrific images that circulated through networks.

The footage from that day transcended any possible expectation. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by armed militants. Someone who taught me taken in the direction of the territory using transportation.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos that defied reality. A senior community member also taken across the border. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – captured by militants, the terror in her eyes devastating.

The Long Wait

It appeared interminable for assistance to reach our community. Then started the agonizing wait for updates. As time passed, a single image circulated showing those who made it. My mother and father were not among them.

During the following period, as friends helped forensic teams document losses, we searched digital spaces for traces of family members. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. We never found recordings showing my parent – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Gradually, the reality became clearer. My elderly parents – together with 74 others – were abducted from our kibbutz. My father was 83, Mom was 85. During the violence, 25 percent of our neighbors were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mum emerged from confinement. Prior to leaving, she turned and offered a handshake of the militant. "Hello," she spoke. That image – a basic human interaction within unimaginable horror – was transmitted everywhere.

Over 500 days following, Dad's body came back. He died only kilometers from our home.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism for the captives, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the primary pain.

Both my parents remained campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, similar to many relatives. We know that hostility and vengeance don't offer the slightest solace from the pain.

I compose these words while crying. With each day, sharing the experience grows harder, not easier. The children belonging to companions are still captive and the weight of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I call dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We typically telling our experience to fight for the captives, despite sorrow feels like privilege we cannot afford – and two years later, our work endures.

No part of this account represents endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected the fighting since it started. The population across the border endured tragedy unimaginably.

I'm shocked by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the militants cannot be considered innocent activists. Because I know their actions during those hours. They abandoned the population – causing pain for all due to their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth with those who defend the violence feels like betraying my dead. My local circle confronts rising hostility, and our people back home has fought against its government consistently facing repeated disappointment again and again.

Across the fields, the devastation across the frontier is visible and painful. It horrifies me. At the same time, the complete justification that many seem willing to provide to the organizations makes me despair.