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It started that morning appearing completely ordinary. I rode accompanied by my family to pick up our new dog. The world appeared secure – before it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I saw updates from the border. I tried reaching my parent, expecting her cheerful voice saying everything was fine. No answer. My dad couldn't be reached. Then, my sibling picked up – his voice already told me the awful reality before he explained.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've observed countless individuals in media reports whose worlds had collapsed. Their eyes showing they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The torrent of horror were overwhelming, and the debris was still swirling.

My son glanced toward me from his screen. I moved to contact people alone. Once we arrived our destination, I saw the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the attackers who seized her residence.

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

Later, I saw footage revealing blazes bursting through our family home. Despite this, in the following days, I refused to accept the house was destroyed – before my siblings provided photographs and evidence.

The Fallout

Getting to the station, I called the puppy provider. "Hostilities has started," I explained. "My parents are likely gone. Our neighborhood has been taken over by attackers."

The ride back consisted of trying to contact community members while also guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that circulated everywhere.

The footage during those hours transcended any possible expectation. A child from our community seized by armed militants. My former educator taken in the direction of the border on a golf cart.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured into the territory. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – children I had played with – being rounded up by militants, the horror apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It appeared endless for the military to come our community. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for information. Later that afternoon, one photograph emerged of survivors. My family were missing.

Over many days, while neighbors assisted investigators locate the missing, we scoured online platforms for traces of those missing. We witnessed brutality and violence. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no clue regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the reality emerged more fully. My elderly parents – along with numerous community members – were abducted from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. During the violence, one in four of the residents were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum left confinement. As she left, she looked back and grasped the hand of her captor. "Peace," she spoke. That gesture – a simple human connection within indescribable tragedy – was broadcast everywhere.

More than sixteen months afterward, my father's remains were returned. He died only kilometers from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. The two years since – our determined activism for the captives, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the initial trauma.

My mother and father remained advocates for peace. My parent remains, as are many relatives. We recognize that hostility and vengeance won't provide the slightest solace from our suffering.

I compose these words while crying. With each day, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, rather than simpler. The kids from my community remain hostages and the weight of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I describe remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed telling our experience to fight for hostage release, though grieving seems unaffordable we don't have – now, our campaign persists.

No part of this story serves as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed this conflict since it started. The people in the territory endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by government decisions, while maintaining that the attackers shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Because I know their atrocities on October 7th. They failed their own people – causing suffering for everyone due to their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story among individuals justifying the violence seems like betraying my dead. My community here experiences growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned against its government throughout this period and been betrayed repeatedly.

Looking over, the destruction across the frontier is visible and emotional. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that various individuals seem to grant to militant groups causes hopelessness.