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It unfolded during that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I journeyed accompanied by my family to collect a new puppy. The world appeared steady – then everything changed.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed updates concerning the frontier. I dialed my parent, hoping for her cheerful voice saying everything was fine. Silence. My parent couldn't be reached. Then, I reached my brother – his tone immediately revealed the devastating news prior to he said anything.

The Developing Horror

I've witnessed numerous faces through news coverage whose worlds were torn apart. Their expressions showing they didn't understand their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The torrent of violence were building, and the debris was still swirling.

My son looked at me from his screen. I shifted to make calls in private. By the time we reached the station, I would witness the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the terrorists who seized her house.

I thought to myself: "Not one of our loved ones would make it."

Eventually, I saw footage revealing blazes erupting from our house. Even then, in the following days, I refused to accept the building was gone – until my family sent me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Getting to the station, I phoned the puppy provider. "Hostilities has begun," I told them. "My parents may not survive. Our neighborhood fell to by terrorists."

The return trip consisted of searching for community members and at the same time guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that circulated across platforms.

The footage of that day were beyond all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of the territory on a golf cart.

Friends sent digital recordings that seemed impossible. A senior community member similarly captured to Gaza. A woman I knew and her little boys – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by militants, the terror visible on her face paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It felt to take forever for help to arrive the area. Then commenced the agonizing wait for news. Later that afternoon, a lone picture appeared of survivors. My mother and father were not among them.

For days and weeks, while neighbors worked with authorities document losses, we combed digital spaces for signs of those missing. We witnessed torture and mutilation. There was no footage of my father – no clue regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the situation became clearer. My aged family – together with 74 others – became captives from the community. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. During the violence, one in four of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my parent was released from imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she turned and shook hands of the militant. "Peace," she said. That gesture – a basic human interaction within unimaginable horror – was shared globally.

Over 500 days following, Dad's body came back. He died only kilometers from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and the visual proof still terrorize me. Everything that followed – our determined activism to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the primary pain.

Both my parents were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, similar to most of my family. We recognize that hate and revenge cannot bring the slightest solace from our suffering.

I share these thoughts through tears. Over the months, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, not easier. The children from my community continue imprisoned and the weight of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I call remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We've become accustomed telling our experience to campaign for hostage release, while mourning feels like privilege we cannot afford – after 24 months, our work persists.

No part of this account serves as support for conflict. I have consistently opposed hostilities from day one. The population in the territory experienced pain terribly.

I'm appalled by leadership actions, but I also insist that the organization shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Having seen their actions during those hours. They abandoned the population – creating tragedy on both sides through their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story with people supporting what happened feels like betraying my dead. My local circle experiences growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought against its government consistently and been betrayed again and again.

From the border, the ruin of the territory can be seen and emotional. It shocks me. At the same time, the complete justification that various individuals seem willing to provide to the organizations causes hopelessness.