🔗 Share this article

It began on a morning that seemed perfectly normal. I rode with my husband and son to welcome our new dog. Everything seemed steady – then it all shifted.

Checking my device, I noticed updates from the border. I called my mother, anticipating her reassuring tone saying they were secure. No answer. My father was also silent. Afterward, I reached my brother – his tone already told me the terrible truth before he said anything.

The Unfolding Tragedy

I've seen so many people in media reports whose existence were torn apart. Their expressions demonstrating they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Now it was me. The torrent of tragedy were overwhelming, and the debris hadn't settled.

My son glanced toward me from his screen. I shifted to make calls separately. Once we arrived the station, I would witness the brutal execution of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the terrorists who took over her residence.

I remember thinking: "Not one of our family could live through this."

Eventually, I witnessed recordings showing fire consuming our residence. Nonetheless, later on, I refused to accept the house was destroyed – until my brothers provided images and proof.

The Consequences

Getting to the station, I called the puppy provider. "A war has started," I told them. "My parents are probably dead. My community was captured by militants."

The ride back consisted of attempting to reach friends and family while simultaneously shielding my child from the awful footage that spread across platforms.

The footage during those hours transcended anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by several attackers. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of Gaza in a vehicle.

Friends sent Telegram videos that seemed impossible. A senior community member likewise abducted to Gaza. A woman I knew and her little boys – boys I knew well – seized by militants, the terror in her eyes paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It appeared interminable for assistance to reach our community. Then began the painful anticipation for updates. As time passed, a lone picture appeared depicting escapees. My mother and father weren't there.

During the following period, while neighbors assisted investigators identify victims, we scoured online platforms for traces of family members. We saw brutality and violence. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no clue regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Over time, the situation emerged more fully. My aged family – as well as numerous community members – became captives from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. During the violence, 25 percent of the residents were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my mum was released from confinement. As she left, she looked back and shook hands of the militant. "Peace," she uttered. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity during indescribable tragedy – was broadcast everywhere.

Five hundred and two days later, Dad's body were recovered. He was murdered only kilometers from the kibbutz.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and the visual proof continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the initial trauma.

My family had always been campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, like many relatives. We understand that hostility and vengeance won't provide the slightest solace from the pain.

I write this through tears. With each day, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, not easier. The kids belonging to companions continue imprisoned along with the pressure of the aftermath feels heavy.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I call dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We typically telling our experience to advocate for freedom, despite sorrow feels like privilege we lack – after 24 months, our efforts endures.

Not one word of this account is intended as support for conflict. I continuously rejected hostilities from the beginning. The population in the territory have suffered terribly.

I am horrified by government decisions, but I also insist that the organization are not innocent activists. Having seen their atrocities on October 7th. They abandoned their own people – causing pain for all because of their violent beliefs.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth among individuals justifying the attackers' actions seems like betraying my dead. My local circle faces growing prejudice, while my community there has struggled with the authorities consistently and been betrayed again and again.

Across the fields, the ruin across the frontier appears clearly and painful. It horrifies me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that many seem willing to provide to the organizations makes me despair.