Hamas Killed My Daughter. My Husband Is Still a Hostage

We woke up at 6:29 a.m. to continuous sirens warning of incoming missiles on a Shabbat morning, October 7, on Kibbutz Nahal-Oz, a village sitting only a short distance from the Gaza border.

Tsachi, my husband, and I ran to our family's designated shelter room hearing explosions on the way. We knew something was terribly wrong because the sounds of war were whistling everywhere around us.

At some point, the text messages from the kibbutz's security system warned us that Hamas attackers penetrated the kibbutz. We were now all in a small space, our "safe" room with reinforced concrete walls designed to protect us from rockets fired from Gaza, next door, a sad reality that became all too familiar to us.

Tsachi tried wedging a chair to block the room's door handle because it didn't have a lock. Eventually, he sat on the chair and waited. We all waited and kept as quiet as possible, in complete darkness, trying to calm down our kids. Suddenly, we heard glass shatter outside and several people walking. I hugged Yael, our 12-year-old daughter. Maayan, our eldest, age 18, was under the bed. Shahar, our son, was on another bed.

We heard a boy, outside, calling us to come out of the house for no other reason than that he was forced to by Hamas. The boy, Tomer, was the 17-year-old son of our neighbor, who the attackers later killed, we learned. Then, the men outside our door banged on it, yelling "Open the door," and "We will not shoot." Tsachi was struggling to keep the door closed. We shouted and cried. They repeated their lines, "Open the door," and "We will not shoot."

Maayan saw the door open slightly, so she jumped up to help her father. Then, we heard a gunshot. I covered Yael with my body. We couldn't see a thing, and our ears were ringing from the sound of the gunshot.

Tsachi yelled, "Who got shot?" Maayan's body dropped to the floor. Tsachi cried out, "Maayan, no!" The men were now in the doorway. They turned on the light and shouted, "Relax, relax," while guns were pointed at me, Tsachi, and the kids.

Tsachi cried, begging to figure out where his 18-year-old was bleeding from, exclaiming, "She's dying." I left Yael to see Maayan in a pool of blood. I felt her body, looking for the bullet wound, and understood then that it was too late. Maayan was shot in the head and was already dead. I looked at Tsachi and began crying.

The men took us out of the safe room and into the living room and set us on the floor. They took my phone and asked for my passcode. With it, they got into my Facebook account. Later, I would learn that Hamas live-streamed its attack that day on Facebook, using our smartphones. Family, friends, and others around the world watched Hamas' brutality and violence in real-time as they entered our home, started shooting, and killed our daughter.

Tsachi was now in deep shock, holding his head in his hands, his face without expression. He was one of the strongest people I know, but on that day, he was a broken man. The kids asked if their father was injured. I had to tell them that the blood on his hands was Maayan's and that she was dead.

Sirens informing us of incoming missiles from Gaza started whaling again. I sheltered my kids as best as I could and the men tried to reassure me, saying "They [Hamas] know where we are," and "They won't shoot missiles here, you are safe." Yael asked: "Why are you doing this?" and "Why did you kill my sister?" They responded, casually, saying "Don't worry. Your sister is with Allah."

Our home became a Hamas headquarters of sorts and an RPG launching pad. Nine men settled in and brought in another kibbutz family, the Mirans, who were now hostages with us. They were a family of four, a mother, father, two daughters, aged 2 years old and 10 months. Later, two more women joined us, a mother and her daughter.

At around noon, the men asked Tsachi and Omri, the Miran husband and father, to stand up. They were handcuffed with zip ties and taken away, barefoot. They would be taken to Gaza that day. Before Tsachi was taken away from us, I told him how much I loved him and implored him not to be a "hero" by taking dangerous risks. Our kids begged these men not to take their father away or to kill him. They responded in a matter-of-fact way, "It is okay, he will be back." We haven't heard a word from Tsachi since that fateful day.

Later that afternoon, at around 5:30 p.m., IDF soldiers came to rescue us. I didn't have a chance to say goodbye to Maayan. Her body remained on the kibbutz until it was cleared from terrorists three days later and then it would be weeks more before we held her funeral. Maayan was a ray of light, a unicorn. How could anyone kill a unicorn? I wondered.

Almost three months later, the kids are still crying. They miss their father every day. My son only sleeps with me. The Red Cross hasn't visited Tsachi or any of the other hostages, we are told. But, our entire family and a community of friends that has embraced us is resolved to bring Tsachi home. I am doing everything in my power to bring him home alive and well. He's my husband, of course, and my better and stronger half. He has to live for our daughter Maayan, and be able to hug our living children again. He needs to come home.

Gali Idan is a member of Kibbutz Nahal Oz. She works in the kibbutz's employment office. She is married to Tsachi Idan, who since October 7, 2023, has been a Hamas hostage in Gaza.

All views expressed in this article are the author's own.

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