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It began during that morning appearing entirely routine. I journeyed accompanied by my family to welcome a new puppy. The world appeared steady – before it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I discovered reports from the border. I called my mum, hoping for her cheerful voice explaining she was safe. No answer. My father didn't respond either. Next, I reached my brother – his voice immediately revealed the terrible truth before he said anything.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've witnessed countless individuals through news coverage whose existence were destroyed. Their gaze demonstrating they didn't understand their loss. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of tragedy were rising, and the debris was still swirling.

My young one watched me over his laptop. I relocated to reach out in private. By the time we arrived the city, I saw the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the terrorists who captured her residence.

I remember thinking: "None of our loved ones will survive."

At some point, I viewed videos depicting flames bursting through our house. Even then, in the following days, I refused to accept the house was destroyed – until my siblings provided visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at the station, I called the kennel owner. "A war has erupted," I said. "My parents are likely gone. Our neighborhood fell to by terrorists."

The journey home was spent searching for loved ones while also protecting my son from the terrible visuals that circulated everywhere.

The footage of that day transcended all comprehension. A child from our community taken by multiple terrorists. My former educator transported to Gaza on a golf cart.

Individuals circulated social media clips appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted into the territory. My friend's daughter and her little boys – kids I recently saw – captured by attackers, the fear apparent in her expression devastating.

The Painful Period

It appeared interminable for the military to come our community. Then started the painful anticipation for news. As time passed, a lone picture emerged showing those who made it. My mother and father were not among them.

Over many days, as community members worked with authorities locate the missing, we searched digital spaces for traces of family members. We encountered brutality and violence. We never found footage of my father – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the reality became clearer. My aged family – along with dozens more – became captives from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, my mother 85. In the chaos, 25 percent of our neighbors were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my parent emerged from confinement. As she left, she looked back and grasped the hand of the militant. "Hello," she said. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity during unimaginable horror – was shared everywhere.

Five hundred and two days later, my father's remains came back. He was murdered only kilometers from our home.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and the visual proof continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign for the captives, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has intensified the primary pain.

My family were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, similar to other loved ones. We understand that animosity and retaliation won't provide any comfort from our suffering.

I write this through tears. Over the months, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, not easier. The young ones belonging to companions continue imprisoned along with the pressure of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I call focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We're used to sharing our story to advocate for hostage release, though grieving feels like privilege we cannot afford – and two years later, our campaign continues.

No part of this story is intended as justification for war. I continuously rejected this conflict since it started. The population in the territory have suffered unimaginably.

I'm shocked by government decisions, while maintaining that the militants cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed their actions during those hours. They failed their own people – causing suffering for everyone due to their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying the violence feels like betraying my dead. The people around me faces growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought against its government for two years facing repeated disappointment again and again.

Across the fields, the devastation across the frontier appears clearly and visceral. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that many appear to offer to the attackers creates discouragement.