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It began on a morning that seemed perfectly normal. I journeyed together with my loved ones to collect our new dog. Everything seemed secure – until it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I saw updates from the border. I called my parent, hoping for her calm response explaining she was safe. Nothing. My father was also silent. Then, I reached my brother – his speech immediately revealed the terrible truth before he spoke.

The Unfolding Horror

I've seen so many people on television whose lives were destroyed. Their expressions demonstrating they couldn't comprehend their loss. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of violence were rising, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My child glanced toward me from his screen. I shifted to contact people separately. When we got to the station, I encountered the horrific murder of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the attackers who seized her home.

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

Later, I viewed videos depicting flames erupting from our family home. Despite this, later on, I denied the house was destroyed – before my siblings shared with me images and proof.

The Consequences

Getting to our destination, I phoned the kennel owner. "Hostilities has started," I said. "My parents are probably dead. Our kibbutz was captured by attackers."

The ride back was spent searching for community members and at the same time protecting my son from the horrific images that circulated everywhere.

The scenes during those hours were beyond anything we could imagine. A child from our community captured by several attackers. Someone who taught me driven toward Gaza using transportation.

Friends sent Telegram videos that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion also taken across the border. A young mother with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – captured by militants, the horror visible on her face paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It seemed to take forever for the military to come our community. Then began the terrible uncertainty for news. As time passed, a single image circulated of survivors. My mother and father weren't there.

During the following period, as friends assisted investigators document losses, we combed the internet for traces of those missing. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. We never found recordings showing my parent – no evidence about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the situation emerged more fully. My elderly parents – together with dozens more – were taken hostage from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. In the chaos, 25 percent of the residents lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum left imprisonment. Before departing, she glanced behind and shook hands of the guard. "Shalom," she spoke. That image – a simple human connection amid unspeakable violence – was broadcast everywhere.

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

The Persistent Wound

These events and the visual proof still terrorize me. Everything that followed – our determined activism to save hostages, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the devastation in Gaza – has compounded the original wound.

My mother and father had always been peace activists. My mother still is, like many relatives. We understand that hate and revenge won't provide any comfort from the pain.

I compose these words while crying. As time passes, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The children belonging to companions remain hostages along with the pressure of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I call focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We're used to sharing our story to campaign for hostage release, despite sorrow seems unaffordable we don't have – after 24 months, our work endures.

Not one word of this narrative is intended as justification for war. I have consistently opposed the fighting from day one. The residents across the border endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I am horrified by political choices, but I also insist that the organization cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Because I know what they did on October 7th. They failed their own people – causing tragedy on both sides through their deadly philosophy.

The Community Split

Sharing my story with people supporting the attackers' actions feels like dishonoring the lost. My local circle experiences unprecedented antisemitism, while my community there has campaigned with the authorities for two years while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

From the border, the ruin of the territory appears clearly and emotional. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that many seem willing to provide to the attackers creates discouragement.