In the midst of chaos, my senses were heightened as I awoke in a state of panic. Israel was engulfed in flames, and lives were tragically lost.
My thoughts immediately turned to my own family, who were present in Israel during this devastating time.
Similar to countless European Jews during the Holocaust, my relatives sought refuge in a small desert nation surrounded by enemies – Israel.
Fortunately, they flourished in Israel. They built families, set down roots, and survived against all odds.
However, this tranquility was shattered on a fateful Saturday in October. Hamas monsters unleashed senseless violence, leading to the slaughter of countless innocent people.
Rape. Murder.
Ghoulish individuals fired guns into a joyous celebration where young souls gathered to dance.
The horrifying accounts of kidnapped and beheaded babies haunt my thoughts, even as I attempt to suppress them.
What kind of evil entity commits such atrocities?
As the death toll continued to rise, I frantically reached out to my family through various means of communication – telephone, email, social media.
Were they safe? I yearned for confirmation.
Yet, there was no response.
The story of my family mirrors that of many others. In 1939, my Austrian mother, a teenager at the time, was sent away by her parents as Hitler seized control of the country with the intention of exterminating Jews.
She boarded a cruise ship bound for what was then known as the British Mandate of Palestine, filled with excitement for new adventures and the hope of reuniting with her family in a few months.
However, months turned into years.
She discovered that her father survived and had relocated to America, but her mother fell victim to a Nazi death camp. It was in that moment that her innocence shattered.
While serving in the army, my mother met my German father, whose immediate family had previously immigrated to Palestine to escape the rise of Hitler.
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Together, they married and embarked on a new chapter in New York City. They welcomed my sister and me into the world, starting anew.
What would they think of this savagery?
Anxiously, I checked my messages repeatedly, hoping for any word from my expanded clan since my last visit to Israel over a decade ago.
Still, silence prevailed.
I consoled myself with the notion that perhaps the internet and phone lines were down or overwhelmed by the crisis. Surely, my cousin, a prominent orthopedic surgeon, was tirelessly attending to the wounded in what Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu and other officials referred to as Israel’s 9/11.
Yet, no response reached me.
My mind wandered into dark corners.
What if my family was not safe?
What if my loved ones, who had peacefully coexisted with their Arab friends and colleagues throughout their lives, had fallen victim to the madness orchestrated by Hamas?
Across America, especially in New York City, home to a substantial Jewish population rivaled only by Israel, individuals like myself anxiously wait for news of their families’ survival.
We yearn for Israel’s survival.
We yearn for the survival of Jews everywhere.
Then, on an early Tuesday morning, an email from my surgeon cousin, Amos Peyser, 66, brought me immense relief:
“Happy to hear from you. We are all safe, and we even welcomed a new grandson into the world yesterday. He is the son of our son, carrying on the Peyser name in this generation. … As for the events that unfolded, you are undoubtedly aware, and we pray fervently for an end to this nightmare. Our son-in-law is currently serving in the North, and another family member is in the South. I hope you and your loved ones are safe.”
A wave of relief washed over me.
The terrorists had not emerged victorious.
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