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It began during that morning appearing entirely routine. I rode accompanied by my family to collect our new dog. Life felt predictable – until it all shifted.

Checking my device, I noticed reports from the border. I called my mum, hoping for her reassuring tone explaining they were secure. Nothing. My parent didn't respond either. Afterward, my brother answered – his voice immediately revealed the terrible truth before he explained.

The Emerging Horror

I've witnessed so many people in media reports whose lives were destroyed. Their gaze showing they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of tragedy were building, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My son glanced toward me over his laptop. I relocated to make calls separately. By the time we got to our destination, I encountered the terrible killing of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the militants who captured her house.

I thought to myself: "Not one of our loved ones would make it."

Later, I saw footage depicting flames erupting from our house. Despite this, in the following days, I couldn't believe the building was gone – not until my siblings provided visual confirmation.

The Consequences

Getting to the city, I called the dog breeder. "Hostilities has erupted," I told them. "My family are probably dead. Our kibbutz fell to by terrorists."

The journey home consisted of trying to contact loved ones while simultaneously protecting my son from the horrific images that spread everywhere.

The scenes from that day were beyond all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son taken by multiple terrorists. My former educator transported to Gaza in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion likewise abducted across the border. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – children I had played with – captured by attackers, the fear in her eyes stunning.

The Long Wait

It felt to take forever for assistance to reach the area. Then commenced the painful anticipation for information. As time passed, a lone picture emerged depicting escapees. My parents were not among them.

During the following period, as friends worked with authorities identify victims, we combed online platforms for signs of our loved ones. We saw atrocities and horrors. There was no recordings showing my parent – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the situation became clearer. My elderly parents – as well as 74 others – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. In the chaos, a quarter of our neighbors were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum emerged from captivity. As she left, she looked back and shook hands of her captor. "Shalom," she uttered. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity within indescribable tragedy – was shared worldwide.

Five hundred and two days later, Dad's body came back. He died a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Continuing Trauma

These experiences and the visual proof continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has intensified the initial trauma.

Both my parents remained advocates for peace. My parent remains, as are many relatives. We understand that animosity and retaliation won't provide the slightest solace from the pain.

I write this amid sorrow. Over the months, sharing the experience grows harder, instead of improving. The young ones of my friends remain hostages with the burden of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I call remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We're used to sharing our story to fight for freedom, despite sorrow seems unaffordable we cannot afford – and two years later, our work continues.

Nothing of this narrative is intended as justification for war. I continuously rejected this conflict from day one. The people across the border have suffered beyond imagination.

I am horrified by leadership actions, while maintaining that the militants shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Having seen their atrocities that day. They abandoned their own people – ensuring suffering for everyone because of their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience with people supporting the attackers' actions seems like betraying my dead. My local circle confronts growing prejudice, and our people back home has campaigned with the authorities for two years while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

From the border, the destruction of the territory is visible and visceral. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that numerous people seem to grant to militant groups makes me despair.