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It started that morning looking perfectly normal. I journeyed together with my loved ones to collect our new dog. Everything seemed predictable – then it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I saw reports about the border region. I tried reaching my parent, anticipating her calm response explaining everything was fine. Nothing. My parent didn't respond either. Afterward, my brother answered – his speech instantly communicated the devastating news before he explained.

The Emerging Horror

I've observed numerous faces on television whose worlds were torn apart. Their gaze showing they hadn't yet processed their loss. Now it was me. The torrent of violence were building, and the debris remained chaotic.

My young one watched me from his screen. I shifted to reach out in private. By the time we reached the city, I encountered the terrible killing of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the militants who captured her residence.

I thought to myself: "Not a single of our loved ones could live through this."

Eventually, I saw footage showing fire consuming our family home. Despite this, later on, I denied the building was gone – not until my siblings sent me images and proof.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at our destination, I contacted the dog breeder. "Conflict has started," I explained. "My family are probably dead. Our kibbutz fell to by militants."

The ride back involved attempting to reach loved ones while also guarding my young one from the awful footage that spread through networks.

The footage during those hours were beyond all comprehension. A child from our community taken by armed militants. My former educator driven toward Gaza in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured to Gaza. A woman I knew with her two small sons – boys I knew well – captured by attackers, the horror apparent in her expression devastating.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt interminable for assistance to reach our community. Then commenced the agonizing wait for updates. In the evening, a single image emerged depicting escapees. My mother and father were missing.

For days and weeks, as friends worked with authorities locate the missing, we scoured digital spaces for traces of our loved ones. We saw atrocities and horrors. We never found footage of my father – no indication about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the circumstances became clearer. My aged family – together with 74 others – were abducted from the community. My father was 83, my mother 85. Amid the terror, one in four of our community members were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my parent left confinement. As she left, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of the guard. "Peace," she spoke. That gesture – a simple human connection during unspeakable violence – was transmitted everywhere.

More than sixteen months afterward, my father's remains were returned. He was murdered only kilometers from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These experiences and the visual proof continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the primary pain.

Both my parents remained campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, similar to other loved ones. We recognize that hate and revenge cannot bring any comfort from this tragedy.

I compose these words amid sorrow. With each day, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The young ones belonging to companions remain hostages with the burden of subsequent events is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I call remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed telling our experience to campaign for the captives, despite sorrow feels like privilege we cannot afford – and two years later, our work endures.

No part of this account is intended as support for conflict. I continuously rejected hostilities since it started. The people in the territory experienced pain unimaginably.

I'm shocked by political choices, yet emphasizing that the organization cannot be considered innocent activists. Having seen their atrocities during those hours. They failed the population – causing pain for all due to their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth among individuals justifying the attackers' actions feels like dishonoring the lost. My local circle faces growing prejudice, while my community there has struggled versus leadership throughout this period while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

From the border, the devastation across the frontier appears clearly and emotional. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the moral carte blanche that many appear to offer to the organizations makes me despair.