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It unfolded that morning looking entirely routine. I was traveling accompanied by my family to collect a new puppy. Everything seemed predictable – until everything changed.

Checking my device, I discovered news about the border region. I tried reaching my mother, anticipating her cheerful voice explaining she was safe. No answer. My parent didn't respond either. Afterward, I reached my brother – his tone already told me the devastating news prior to he explained.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've witnessed numerous faces on television whose lives were destroyed. Their eyes showing they didn't understand their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The torrent of tragedy were building, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My young one watched me over his laptop. I relocated to make calls separately. By the time we got to our destination, I encountered the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the terrorists who captured her home.

I thought to myself: "Not one of our loved ones will survive."

Eventually, I saw footage depicting flames bursting through our family home. Even then, later on, I denied the house was destroyed – before my family provided visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Getting to the city, I phoned the kennel owner. "A war has started," I explained. "My parents may not survive. My community has been taken over by attackers."

The journey home was spent attempting to reach loved ones and at the same time guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that were emerging across platforms.

The images of that day transcended any possible expectation. A child from our community captured by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me transported to the border in a vehicle.

Friends sent social media clips that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured across the border. A woman I knew accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by attackers, the horror apparent in her expression stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It appeared interminable for assistance to reach the area. Then started the agonizing wait for updates. In the evening, a single image circulated depicting escapees. My mother and father were not among them.

During the following period, as friends helped forensic teams identify victims, we scoured digital spaces for signs of those missing. We encountered atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover footage of my father – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the situation became clearer. My elderly parents – together with dozens more – were abducted from their home. My parent was in his eighties, my other parent was elderly. In the chaos, one in four of our community members were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mum emerged from confinement. As she left, she turned and grasped the hand of the militant. "Peace," she uttered. That gesture – a basic human interaction within unimaginable horror – was broadcast everywhere.

Five hundred and two days later, Dad's body came back. He was murdered just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These experiences and the recorded evidence remain with me. Everything that followed – our determined activism to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the original wound.

Both my parents remained campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, like other loved ones. We understand that hate and revenge don't offer even momentary relief from this tragedy.

I share these thoughts through tears. With each day, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The young ones of my friends are still captive and the weight of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I call focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We're used to sharing our story to advocate for hostage release, while mourning feels like privilege we lack – after 24 months, our efforts continues.

Nothing of this narrative serves as justification for war. I have consistently opposed the fighting from the beginning. The people across the border have suffered unimaginably.

I am horrified by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the organization are not innocent activists. Because I know what they did on October 7th. They betrayed the community – causing pain for all through their violent beliefs.

The Social Divide

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying the violence appears as dishonoring the lost. The people around me faces growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled versus leadership for two years while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

From the border, the ruin of the territory can be seen and emotional. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that various individuals appear to offer to the attackers causes hopelessness.