Experiencing the terror of living in an area prone to bombings had become a regular occurrence for us. However, on this particular day, we quickly realized that this was different. Seeking safety in our designated shelter room, our concern grew as we received distressing messages from outside. Inside the room were myself, my husband, our four children, and our faithful dog.
Suddenly, we heard the doorknob being twisted by three people in our house – two men and a young woman. The room lacked any kind of lock; its purpose was solely for protection from bombs, not against intruders. Desperate, my husband grasped the handle tightly while the rest of us huddled in a corner. Unbeknownst to us, they had been in our house for hours, casually watching TV and even indulging in a show on Netflix. They were fully aware of our presence, yet we could only wait in silence for what felt like an eternity – afraid, hungry, and wondering why these attackers sought to end our lives.
In moments of despair, I whispered to my husband, “If you can’t hold on any longer, use your weapon to end our suffering swiftly.” Those 12 hours dragged on, each moment filled with fear and uncertainty.
Eventually, they granted us a mere seven minutes to gather our belongings before ushering us out of the apartment to safety. To shield our children from the horrifying sight of lifeless bodies scattered on the streets of our once peaceful kibbutz, we covered their faces with shirts. Growing up in Nir Oz, I had always feared the day terrorists would invade our beloved community. However, nothing could have prepared me for the extent of the cruelty and humiliation we endured.
The intruders left a haunting message, scrawling Arabic words on the walls, asserting their dominance over our home. It was a painful reminder that they considered us mere trespassers in our own land. Still, my children persistently inquire about their missing loved ones – Safta, Jhoni, Tamari, and Omer. I’m forced to feign ignorance and repeatedly assure them that I don’t know their whereabouts.
But deep down, I do know. I knew my father had perished. His final words to me through WhatsApp echoed in my mind. “Give a hug to the kids. We’re safe. It’ll be alright. This nightmare will soon be over.”
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