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It began on a morning looking entirely routine. I rode together with my loved ones to pick up a furry companion. Life felt steady – then reality shattered.

Glancing at my screen, I saw updates from the border. I tried reaching my parent, expecting her calm response explaining they were secure. Nothing. My father didn't respond either. Then, my brother answered – his tone already told me the devastating news prior to he explained.

The Emerging Horror

I've observed so many people through news coverage whose worlds had collapsed. Their gaze revealing they didn't understand what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of horror were overwhelming, and the debris hadn't settled.

My son glanced toward me across the seat. I relocated to make calls alone. By the time we got to the city, I saw the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the attackers who captured her residence.

I thought to myself: "None of our family could live through this."

At some point, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes bursting through our residence. Even then, in the following days, I refused to accept the house was destroyed – until my siblings shared with me images and proof.

The Fallout

Getting to the city, I phoned the dog breeder. "Hostilities has erupted," I said. "My parents may not survive. Our neighborhood has been taken over by terrorists."

The return trip consisted of searching for friends and family while also shielding my child from the terrible visuals that were emerging through networks.

The footage from that day exceeded anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by armed militants. My mathematics teacher transported to the border using transportation.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos that defied reality. A senior community member likewise abducted into the territory. My friend's daughter and her little boys – boys I knew well – seized by militants, the fear apparent in her expression stunning.

The Painful Period

It felt to take forever for the military to come the kibbutz. Then started the agonizing wait for updates. As time passed, a lone picture circulated showing those who made it. My mother and father were missing.

Over many days, while neighbors worked with authorities identify victims, we searched digital spaces for traces of those missing. We saw atrocities and horrors. There was no footage of my father – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Emerging Picture

Eventually, the circumstances became clearer. My elderly parents – as well as 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 neighbors were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother left captivity. Before departing, she turned and shook hands of her captor. "Peace," she spoke. That moment – a simple human connection amid unimaginable horror – was transmitted globally.

Over 500 days later, Dad's body came back. He died a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and the visual proof remain with me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts for the captives, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has worsened the initial trauma.

My mother and father had always been campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, like most of my family. We recognize that hate and revenge cannot bring any comfort from the pain.

I compose these words while crying. With each day, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, rather than simpler. The young ones of my friends are still captive with the burden of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I term dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed discussing events to campaign for the captives, while mourning seems unaffordable we lack – after 24 months, our work persists.

Not one word of this story represents support for conflict. I continuously rejected the fighting from the beginning. The population across the border have suffered beyond imagination.

I am horrified by leadership actions, while maintaining that the organization are not peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed what they did on October 7th. They failed the population – ensuring pain for all because of their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying what happened seems like betraying my dead. My local circle experiences rising hostility, and our people back home has campaigned with the authorities for two years and been betrayed multiple times.

Across the fields, the ruin in Gaza appears clearly and emotional. It appalls me. At the same time, the complete justification that numerous people seem to grant to the organizations makes me despair.