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It unfolded that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I was traveling together with my loved ones to collect a furry companion. Life felt predictable – before reality shattered.

Opening my phone, I discovered reports from the border. I called my mum, expecting her reassuring tone telling me they were secure. Silence. My dad was also silent. Then, my sibling picked up – his tone immediately revealed the terrible truth before he explained.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've seen countless individuals on television whose lives were torn apart. Their expressions showing they hadn't yet processed their loss. Then it became our turn. The torrent of violence were overwhelming, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My child looked at me across the seat. I relocated to make calls alone. Once we got to the city, I saw the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the terrorists who took over her house.

I recall believing: "Not one of our friends could live through this."

At some point, I witnessed recordings depicting flames erupting from our residence. Even then, later on, I refused to accept the building was gone – until my brothers shared with me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

When we reached the station, I contacted the dog breeder. "Hostilities has started," I explained. "My parents are probably dead. Our neighborhood has been taken over by terrorists."

The ride back involved searching for community members while simultaneously guarding my young one from the horrific images that circulated across platforms.

The images during those hours were beyond any possible expectation. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by several attackers. My former educator taken in the direction of the territory in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated social media clips that defied reality. A senior community member similarly captured across the border. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – seized by attackers, the terror in her eyes paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It seemed interminable for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then began the painful anticipation for news. As time passed, one photograph circulated of survivors. My mother and father were not among them.

During the following period, as community members helped forensic teams document losses, we combed the internet for traces of our loved ones. We encountered torture and mutilation. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no evidence about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Eventually, the situation became clearer. My elderly parents – together with numerous community members – became captives from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, 25 percent of our neighbors were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent was released from imprisonment. Before departing, she looked back and grasped the hand of the militant. "Peace," she spoke. That moment – a basic human interaction during indescribable tragedy – was shared worldwide.

Over 500 days later, my parent's physical presence came back. He was murdered a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts for the captives, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has compounded the initial trauma.

Both my parents remained peace activists. Mom continues, similar to other loved ones. We understand that hate and revenge cannot bring even momentary relief from this tragedy.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. As time passes, discussing these events grows harder, not easier. The young ones from my community continue imprisoned and the weight of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I call remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We typically telling our experience to fight for hostage release, though grieving feels like privilege we cannot afford – after 24 months, our campaign persists.

Nothing of this account is intended as endorsement of violence. I've always been against hostilities since it started. The population across the border experienced pain unimaginably.

I'm appalled by political choices, but I also insist that the organization are not benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed what they did that day. They abandoned the community – causing tragedy on both sides due to their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying the violence seems like failing the deceased. My local circle confronts rising hostility, and our people back home has campaigned with the authorities for two years facing repeated disappointment again and again.

From the border, the ruin across the frontier is visible and visceral. It appalls me. At the same time, the complete justification that many seem to grant to the organizations makes me despair.