🔗 Share this article

It began that morning that seemed entirely routine. I journeyed with my husband and son to pick up our new dog. Everything seemed steady – before reality shattered.

Glancing at my screen, I saw news concerning the frontier. I called my parent, hoping for her cheerful voice saying they were secure. Silence. My parent didn't respond either. Afterward, I reached my brother – his tone instantly communicated the awful reality even as he said anything.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've seen so many people through news coverage whose worlds had collapsed. Their gaze demonstrating they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The deluge of violence were building, and the debris hadn't settled.

My young one looked at me from his screen. I relocated to make calls alone. By the time we reached the station, I saw the horrific murder of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the attackers who captured her house.

I thought to myself: "None of our family would make it."

At some point, I saw footage showing fire erupting from our house. Nonetheless, in the following days, I denied the house was destroyed – before my family provided visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Getting to our destination, I phoned the puppy provider. "Conflict has erupted," I said. "My family are likely gone. Our neighborhood has been taken over by terrorists."

The return trip involved attempting to reach loved ones while also protecting my son from the horrific images that spread across platforms.

The images of that day were beyond all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son taken by armed militants. Someone who taught me transported to the territory in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated digital recordings that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured into the territory. A woman I knew with her two small sons – boys I knew well – captured by attackers, the fear apparent in her expression devastating.

The Painful Period

It appeared endless for help to arrive the area. Then started the painful anticipation for updates. In the evening, one photograph appeared showing those who made it. My family were not among them.

For days and weeks, while neighbors helped forensic teams identify victims, we scoured online platforms for traces of those missing. We saw torture and mutilation. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no clue about his final moments.

The Developing Reality

Gradually, the circumstances grew more distinct. My aged family – along with 74 others – were abducted from their home. My father was 83, my mother 85. During the violence, 25 percent of the residents were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent emerged from imprisonment. Before departing, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of her captor. "Shalom," she spoke. That image – a basic human interaction during unimaginable horror – was transmitted globally.

Over 500 days later, my father's remains were recovered. He was murdered just two miles from where we lived.

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and their documentation remain with me. Everything that followed – our determined activism for the captives, my parent's awful death, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the original wound.

Both my parents remained peace activists. My mother still is, like most of my family. We recognize that hate and revenge won't provide the slightest solace from this tragedy.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. With each day, sharing the experience grows harder, instead of improving. The kids belonging to companions continue imprisoned with the burden of what followed feels heavy.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I term dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We typically discussing events to campaign for hostage release, despite sorrow remains a luxury we don't have – and two years later, our efforts persists.

Not one word of this narrative is intended as justification for war. I continuously rejected the fighting since it started. The population across the border have suffered beyond imagination.

I am horrified by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the organization shouldn't be viewed as innocent activists. Since I witnessed their actions that day. They abandoned their own people – creating suffering for everyone through their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth among individuals justifying the attackers' actions seems like betraying my dead. The people around me faces growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought with the authorities for two years while experiencing betrayal again and again.

Across the fields, the destruction of the territory appears clearly and emotional. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that various individuals seem to grant to the organizations causes hopelessness.