It started that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I journeyed with my husband and son to pick up a new puppy. Life felt secure – then it all shifted.
Opening my phone, I discovered reports from the border. I tried reaching my mum, anticipating her cheerful voice telling me they were secure. Nothing. My dad didn't respond either. Then, I reached my brother – his speech instantly communicated the terrible truth before he explained.
I've seen numerous faces through news coverage whose worlds had collapsed. Their expressions revealing they didn't understand what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The deluge of violence were rising, amid the destruction was still swirling.
My son watched me across the seat. I shifted to contact people alone. By the time we reached the city, I encountered the horrific murder of a woman from my past – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the attackers who took over her residence.
I recall believing: "Not one of our loved ones could live through this."
Eventually, I saw footage showing fire erupting from our house. Despite this, later on, I refused to accept the home had burned – before my family provided images and proof.
Upon arriving at the station, I called the dog breeder. "Hostilities has begun," I said. "My family are likely gone. My community has been taken over by attackers."
The journey home was spent trying to contact community members while also shielding my child from the awful footage that were emerging across platforms.
The scenes during those hours transcended any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son taken by armed militants. My former educator taken in the direction of the territory using transportation.
People shared Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. A senior community member also taken to Gaza. A woman I knew accompanied by her children – children I had played with – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the fear visible on her face paralyzing.
It appeared endless for the military to come the kibbutz. Then began the terrible uncertainty for information. In the evening, a single image appeared showing those who made it. My parents weren't there.
For days and weeks, as friends helped forensic teams identify victims, we combed the internet for signs of our loved ones. We saw atrocities and horrors. We never found footage of my father – no indication concerning his ordeal.
Eventually, the situation grew more distinct. My elderly parents – along with dozens more – were abducted from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. In the chaos, 25 percent of the residents lost their lives or freedom.
After more than two weeks, my parent was released from captivity. As she left, she looked back and offered a handshake of the militant. "Shalom," she said. That moment – a basic human interaction amid unimaginable horror – was transmitted everywhere.
More than sixteen months afterward, my parent's physical presence came back. He was killed a short distance from where we lived.
These events and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. The two years since – our determined activism to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the initial trauma.
My mother and father had always been campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, similar to other loved ones. We know that hostility and vengeance don't offer even momentary relief from the pain.
I share these thoughts amid sorrow. As time passes, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The young ones belonging to companions are still captive with the burden of subsequent events feels heavy.
In my mind, I describe remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We typically discussing events to fight for the captives, despite sorrow feels like privilege we cannot afford – after 24 months, our work continues.
Nothing of this account serves as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed the fighting from day one. The people in the territory have suffered unimaginably.
I am horrified by political choices, but I also insist that the organization are not benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed their atrocities during those hours. They abandoned the population – causing tragedy on both sides through their murderous ideology.
Telling my truth with people supporting the violence feels like betraying my dead. My community here faces rising hostility, while my community there has fought with the authorities throughout this period facing repeated disappointment again and again.
From the border, the ruin in Gaza appears clearly and painful. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that many seem to grant to the organizations makes me despair.
A tech enthusiast and lifestyle blogger with a passion for sharing practical insights and inspiring creativity in everyday life.
New
