🔗 Share this article

It unfolded that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I journeyed with my husband and son to pick up our new dog. Life felt predictable – before everything changed.

Checking my device, I discovered reports from the border. I dialed my mum, hoping for her calm response explaining everything was fine. Nothing. My parent didn't respond either. Then, my sibling picked up – his speech already told me the devastating news before he explained.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've seen so many people on television whose worlds were destroyed. Their gaze revealing they didn't understand their loss. Now it was me. The floodwaters of horror were overwhelming, amid the destruction was still swirling.

My son glanced toward me across the seat. I shifted to contact people in private. Once we reached our destination, I saw the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the terrorists who seized her home.

I thought to myself: "Not one of our loved ones could live through this."

At some point, I viewed videos depicting flames consuming our house. Despite this, later on, I denied the building was gone – not until my brothers shared with me photographs and evidence.

The Consequences

Upon arriving at our destination, I called the kennel owner. "Hostilities has started," I said. "My family are likely gone. Our kibbutz fell to by terrorists."

The ride back involved trying to contact community members while also protecting my son from the terrible visuals that circulated everywhere.

The images of that day transcended any possible expectation. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by several attackers. Someone who taught me transported to the territory in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated social media clips that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted across the border. My friend's daughter and her little boys – boys I knew well – being rounded up by militants, the horror apparent in her expression devastating.

The Long Wait

It appeared interminable for the military to come the kibbutz. Then began the terrible uncertainty for information. As time passed, a single image circulated of survivors. My family weren't there.

During the following period, as community members worked with authorities locate the missing, we searched the internet for evidence of those missing. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no indication about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Over time, the reality emerged more fully. My elderly parents – together with 74 others – were taken hostage from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. Amid the terror, one in four of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my mother emerged from captivity. As she left, she glanced behind and shook hands of the guard. "Peace," she spoke. That image – an elemental act of humanity during indescribable tragedy – was broadcast worldwide.

Over 500 days later, my parent's physical presence came back. He was murdered just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and their documentation still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism for the captives, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the primary pain.

My mother and father remained campaigners for reconciliation. My parent remains, like many relatives. We recognize that animosity and retaliation cannot bring any comfort from the pain.

I compose these words while crying. With each day, sharing the experience grows harder, not easier. The children from my community remain hostages along with the pressure of what followed feels heavy.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I term focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We typically telling our experience to advocate for hostage release, though grieving seems unaffordable we cannot afford – now, our campaign endures.

Nothing of this account is intended as justification for war. I have consistently opposed hostilities from the beginning. The people in the territory endured tragedy terribly.

I'm shocked by government decisions, while maintaining that the organization cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Because I know their atrocities during those hours. They failed their own people – creating pain for all due to their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth with people supporting what happened feels like failing the deceased. My local circle experiences growing prejudice, and our people back home has campaigned with the authorities throughout this period while experiencing betrayal again and again.

Across the fields, the devastation in Gaza can be seen and visceral. It appalls me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that various individuals appear to offer to the organizations makes me despair.