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It began that morning looking completely ordinary. I rode together with my loved ones to collect a furry companion. The world appeared steady – then reality shattered.

Glancing at my screen, I saw news from the border. I called my mother, expecting her reassuring tone saying she was safe. No answer. My dad was also silent. Then, my sibling picked up – his tone already told me the awful reality even as he explained.

The Developing Tragedy

I've observed so many people in media reports whose lives had collapsed. Their gaze revealing they couldn't comprehend their loss. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of horror were rising, with the wreckage was still swirling.

My child glanced toward me from his screen. I shifted to reach out in private. By the time we got to the station, I saw the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the militants who captured her house.

I thought to myself: "Not a single of our family would make it."

Eventually, I witnessed recordings depicting flames bursting through our family home. Even then, in the following days, I refused to accept the house was destroyed – not until my brothers sent me images and proof.

The Consequences

Upon arriving at our destination, I phoned the kennel owner. "A war has erupted," I told them. "My family may not survive. Our kibbutz fell to by attackers."

The ride back was spent attempting to reach loved ones while also protecting my son from the terrible visuals that were emerging through networks.

The images of that day were beyond any possible expectation. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by armed militants. Someone who taught me taken in the direction of Gaza in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend also taken into the territory. A woman I knew with her two small sons – boys I knew well – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the fear visible on her face devastating.

The Agonizing Delay

It appeared interminable for the military to come our community. Then started the terrible uncertainty for information. In the evening, a lone picture circulated showing those who made it. My parents were not among them.

For days and weeks, while neighbors helped forensic teams locate the missing, we searched digital spaces for evidence of those missing. We witnessed brutality and violence. We never found footage of my father – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Over time, the circumstances became clearer. My senior mother and father – together with numerous community members – became captives from their home. My parent was in his eighties, my mother 85. In the chaos, 25 percent of the residents lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum was released from confinement. Prior to leaving, she looked back and grasped the hand of the militant. "Hello," she spoke. That moment – a simple human connection within unimaginable horror – was broadcast worldwide.

Five hundred and two days following, Dad's body came back. He died only kilometers from where we lived.

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and the visual proof still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts for the captives, my parent's awful death, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the primary pain.

My family remained campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, like many relatives. We recognize that hate and revenge won't provide the slightest solace from this tragedy.

I share these thoughts while crying. Over the months, discussing these events grows harder, instead of improving. The young ones belonging to companions continue imprisoned and the weight of what followed is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I call remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed sharing our story to advocate for freedom, though grieving feels like privilege we don't have – after 24 months, our work continues.

No part of this story represents justification for war. I've always been against this conflict since it started. The residents in the territory experienced pain terribly.

I'm shocked by leadership actions, but I also insist that the militants cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed what they did on October 7th. They betrayed the community – creating pain for all due to their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth among individuals justifying what happened feels like dishonoring the lost. My local circle confronts growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought against its government for two years and been betrayed multiple times.

Looking over, the ruin across the frontier appears clearly and visceral. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that many seem to grant to the attackers makes me despair.