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It unfolded during that morning looking completely ordinary. I was traveling together with my loved ones to pick up a furry companion. Everything seemed secure – then reality shattered.

Checking my device, I discovered updates concerning the frontier. I dialed my mum, hoping for her cheerful voice telling me she was safe. No answer. My parent couldn't be reached. Afterward, my brother answered – his speech immediately revealed the devastating news even as he said anything.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've witnessed countless individuals in media reports whose worlds had collapsed. Their gaze demonstrating they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The torrent of violence were rising, and the debris remained chaotic.

My child glanced toward me over his laptop. I relocated to contact people alone. When we reached the station, I encountered the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the militants who captured her house.

I remember thinking: "Not a single of our friends will survive."

Later, I witnessed recordings depicting flames bursting through our family home. Even then, in the following days, I refused to accept the home had burned – until my family shared with me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at our destination, I phoned the kennel owner. "Hostilities has started," I told them. "My parents are probably dead. Our neighborhood fell to by militants."

The ride back consisted of trying to contact loved ones while simultaneously guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that spread through networks.

The footage during those hours transcended any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son seized by several attackers. My former educator taken in the direction of the territory in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured across the border. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – seized by armed terrorists, the terror visible on her face paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It felt to take forever for the military to come the kibbutz. Then started the terrible uncertainty for information. Later that afternoon, a lone picture circulated of survivors. My parents were missing.

For days and weeks, while neighbors worked with authorities document losses, we combed online platforms for signs of our loved ones. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. We never found footage of my father – no clue about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the reality grew more distinct. My elderly parents – along with dozens more – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. Amid the terror, one in four of the residents were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my parent was released from captivity. As she left, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of the guard. "Peace," she spoke. That image – a basic human interaction during unspeakable violence – was shared globally.

Over 500 days following, Dad's body were recovered. He was murdered only kilometers from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts to save hostages, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has compounded the primary pain.

My mother and father remained campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, like many relatives. We know that hate and revenge don't offer the slightest solace from this tragedy.

I write this through tears. As time passes, sharing the experience grows harder, not easier. The kids of my friends are still captive along with the pressure of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I call focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We typically telling our experience to advocate for freedom, while mourning seems unaffordable we cannot afford – after 24 months, our campaign continues.

No part of this narrative serves as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed this conflict from day one. The residents in the territory endured tragedy terribly.

I am horrified by government decisions, but I also insist that the attackers shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed their atrocities on October 7th. They abandoned the population – ensuring suffering for everyone through their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth among individuals justifying the attackers' actions appears as dishonoring the lost. My local circle experiences rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled with the authorities throughout this period facing repeated disappointment again and again.

Looking over, the ruin of the territory is visible and emotional. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that many seem to grant to the organizations creates discouragement.