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It unfolded during that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I rode accompanied by my family to welcome a furry companion. Everything seemed secure – until it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed updates from the border. I called my parent, anticipating her cheerful voice saying they were secure. Silence. My parent didn't respond either. Afterward, my brother answered – his tone instantly communicated the awful reality prior to he spoke.

The Emerging Horror

I've witnessed countless individuals through news coverage whose existence had collapsed. Their gaze showing they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of tragedy were building, with the wreckage remained chaotic.

My son glanced toward me over his laptop. I shifted to make calls separately. By the time we arrived the station, I would witness the horrific murder of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the militants who took over her residence.

I remember thinking: "None of our friends would make it."

Eventually, I witnessed recordings depicting flames consuming our family home. Despite this, in the following days, I couldn't believe the building was gone – not until my brothers shared with me images and proof.

The Consequences

Upon arriving at our destination, I contacted the dog breeder. "Hostilities has erupted," I told them. "My parents may not survive. Our neighborhood was captured by militants."

The ride back was spent searching for community members and at the same time shielding my child from the terrible visuals that spread through networks.

The images of that day transcended all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son seized by armed militants. Someone who taught me transported to the border in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated digital recordings that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured to Gaza. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – seized by armed terrorists, the fear visible on her face paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It felt endless for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then commenced the agonizing wait for news. As time passed, a single image circulated showing those who made it. My family weren't there.

Over many days, as friends helped forensic teams document losses, we searched digital spaces for evidence of our loved ones. We encountered atrocities and horrors. We never found footage of my father – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the circumstances emerged more fully. My elderly parents – together with numerous community members – became captives from the community. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. During the violence, 25 percent of the residents were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my parent emerged from imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she turned and grasped the hand of the guard. "Hello," she said. That moment – a simple human connection within unspeakable violence – was transmitted worldwide.

Five hundred and two days later, Dad's body were returned. He died only kilometers from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These events and the visual proof continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the ongoing war, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the initial trauma.

My mother and father remained advocates for peace. My mother still is, as are other loved ones. We understand that animosity and retaliation won't provide the slightest solace from our suffering.

I compose these words while crying. As time passes, sharing the experience grows harder, instead of improving. The young ones belonging to companions remain hostages and the weight of the aftermath feels heavy.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I describe focusing on the trauma "immersed in suffering". We typically telling our experience to campaign for hostage release, though grieving remains a luxury we don't have – and two years later, our work persists.

Not one word of this narrative represents support for conflict. I have consistently opposed the fighting since it started. The residents across the border endured tragedy unimaginably.

I'm appalled by government decisions, while maintaining that the militants cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Having seen their actions during those hours. They abandoned their own people – causing suffering for everyone because of their violent beliefs.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience with those who defend what happened feels like betraying my dead. My community here confronts growing prejudice, while my community there has struggled with the authorities consistently facing repeated disappointment again and again.

Across the fields, the destruction across the frontier can be seen and emotional. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that numerous people seem willing to provide to the organizations creates discouragement.