🔗 Share this article

It began during that morning looking completely ordinary. I rode with my husband and son to pick up a new puppy. Life felt predictable – until it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I saw news from the border. I called my mum, hoping for her reassuring tone telling me she was safe. No answer. My dad didn't respond either. Next, my sibling picked up – his voice already told me the terrible truth before he explained.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've observed numerous faces on television whose lives were destroyed. Their eyes demonstrating they didn't understand their loss. Then it became our turn. The deluge of horror were building, and the debris was still swirling.

My son glanced toward me from his screen. I moved to make calls in private. Once we got to the city, I encountered the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – a senior citizen – shown in real-time by the terrorists who took over her home.

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

At some point, I witnessed recordings depicting flames bursting through our house. Despite this, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the home had burned – not until my family provided images and proof.

The Aftermath

Getting to our destination, I contacted the dog breeder. "A war has started," I told them. "My family are likely gone. My community has been taken over by terrorists."

The ride back consisted of trying to contact loved ones while also guarding my young one from the awful footage that were emerging across platforms.

The scenes of that day exceeded all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me driven toward the territory in a vehicle.

People shared Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. A senior community member similarly captured to Gaza. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – captured by armed terrorists, the terror visible on her face stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It seemed interminable for the military to come the area. Then started the terrible uncertainty for news. Later that afternoon, a lone picture appeared of survivors. My parents weren't there.

During the following period, while neighbors assisted investigators identify victims, we searched digital spaces for traces of those missing. We encountered atrocities and horrors. We never found footage of my father – no clue regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the circumstances emerged more fully. My aged family – along with dozens more – were taken hostage from their home. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. During the violence, one in four of our community members were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum left imprisonment. Before departing, she looked back and offered a handshake of the guard. "Hello," she spoke. That image – a simple human connection within unspeakable violence – was transmitted worldwide.

Over 500 days following, my parent's physical presence were returned. He was murdered only kilometers from our home.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and their documentation still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has worsened the original wound.

Both my parents remained advocates for peace. My mother still is, as are many relatives. We know that hostility and vengeance cannot bring even momentary relief from the pain.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. Over the months, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, not easier. The kids from my community remain hostages and the weight of what followed remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I describe remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed telling our experience to advocate for freedom, though grieving seems unaffordable we cannot afford – and two years later, our campaign endures.

No part of this story serves as support for conflict. I continuously rejected hostilities from the beginning. The people in the territory experienced pain terribly.

I'm shocked by government decisions, but I also insist that the organization are not innocent activists. Because I know their atrocities on October 7th. They betrayed the community – ensuring tragedy on both sides because of their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Discussing my experience with those who defend the attackers' actions seems like failing the deceased. My local circle faces rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned against its government consistently while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

From the border, the devastation across the frontier is visible and visceral. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that various individuals appear to offer to militant groups makes me despair.