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It started on a morning appearing perfectly normal. I was traveling accompanied by my family to collect our new dog. Everything seemed predictable – before reality shattered.

Glancing at my screen, I saw news about the border region. I dialed my mother, expecting her calm response explaining everything was fine. Nothing. My parent was also silent. Next, I reached my brother – his tone instantly communicated the awful reality even as he said anything.

The Developing Horror

I've witnessed numerous faces in media reports whose lives were destroyed. Their eyes revealing they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Now it was me. The deluge of horror were rising, with the wreckage was still swirling.

My child watched me over his laptop. I relocated to make calls in private. Once we got to our destination, I encountered the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the attackers who captured her house.

I recall believing: "Not one of our family will survive."

At some point, I saw footage revealing blazes bursting through our residence. Despite this, in the following days, I denied the house was destroyed – not until my siblings sent me photographs and evidence.

The Consequences

Getting to the city, I called the dog breeder. "Hostilities has begun," I explained. "My family are probably dead. Our kibbutz was captured by terrorists."

The journey home involved attempting to reach loved ones and at the same time shielding my child from the horrific images that were emerging everywhere.

The scenes from that day transcended anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by several attackers. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of the border in a vehicle.

People shared Telegram videos that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted to Gaza. A young mother and her little boys – children I had played with – seized by attackers, the fear in her eyes devastating.

The Long Wait

It seemed interminable for the military to come the kibbutz. Then commenced the painful anticipation for updates. Later that afternoon, one photograph emerged depicting escapees. My parents were missing.

Over many days, as community members worked with authorities locate the missing, we scoured digital spaces for evidence of family members. We saw torture and mutilation. There was no footage of my father – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the reality became clearer. My elderly parents – along with 74 others – became captives from their home. My parent was in his eighties, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, a quarter of our neighbors were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my mother was released from imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and shook hands of the militant. "Peace," she uttered. That gesture – a basic human interaction during unspeakable violence – was transmitted globally.

More than sixteen months following, Dad's body were recovered. He was killed a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and their documentation still terrorize me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts for the captives, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has compounded the primary pain.

Both my parents were lifelong advocates for peace. Mom continues, as are many relatives. We recognize that hostility and vengeance don't offer any comfort from the pain.

I compose these words while crying. With each day, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, not easier. The kids belonging to companions are still captive and the weight of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I describe dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We typically discussing events to advocate for freedom, though grieving seems unaffordable we lack – and two years later, our work continues.

No part of this story serves as justification for war. I have consistently opposed the fighting from day one. The people in the territory endured tragedy unimaginably.

I'm appalled by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the organization shouldn't be viewed as innocent activists. Having seen what they did on October 7th. They abandoned the population – causing pain for all through their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience with people supporting the violence seems like betraying my dead. My local circle experiences growing prejudice, while my community there has fought versus leadership consistently and been betrayed repeatedly.

From the border, the ruin in Gaza is visible and emotional. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that various individuals seem to grant to militant groups causes hopelessness.