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It began on a morning that seemed entirely routine. I was traveling accompanied by my family to collect a furry companion. Life felt predictable – before it all shifted.

Checking my device, I discovered reports from the border. I dialed my parent, hoping for her cheerful voice telling me they were secure. Silence. My dad was also silent. Afterward, my brother answered – his tone already told me the terrible truth prior to he spoke.

The Emerging Horror

I've seen countless individuals on television whose existence were destroyed. Their expressions demonstrating they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Now it was me. The torrent of violence were rising, amid the destruction was still swirling.

My young one watched me over his laptop. I moved to reach out in private. When we reached our destination, I saw the terrible killing of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the militants who seized her house.

I remember thinking: "None of our family will survive."

Later, I viewed videos depicting flames erupting from our house. Despite this, in the following days, I refused to accept the house was destroyed – until my family sent me images and proof.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at the station, I phoned the kennel owner. "Conflict has erupted," I said. "My mother and father may not survive. Our kibbutz has been taken over by militants."

The return trip consisted of trying to contact community members and at the same time guarding my young one from the horrific images that were emerging through networks.

The images from that day were beyond any possible expectation. A child from our community taken by multiple terrorists. My former educator transported to the border in a vehicle.

People shared digital recordings that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted into the territory. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – children I had played with – seized by armed terrorists, the fear in her eyes devastating.

The Painful Period

It appeared interminable for help to arrive our community. Then commenced the painful anticipation for news. In the evening, a single image circulated showing those who made it. My parents were missing.

Over many days, while neighbors worked with authorities locate the missing, we scoured digital spaces for signs of family members. We encountered torture and mutilation. We didn't discover footage of my father – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Gradually, the situation became clearer. My elderly parents – along with dozens more – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. During the violence, one in four of our community members were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my mum was released from confinement. As she left, she glanced behind and shook hands of her captor. "Shalom," she said. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity amid unimaginable horror – was transmitted everywhere.

More than sixteen months following, Dad's body were recovered. He was killed a short distance from our home.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and their documentation continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the primary pain.

My mother and father were lifelong advocates for peace. Mom continues, like other loved ones. We understand that hostility and vengeance don't offer even momentary relief from our suffering.

I compose these words through tears. Over the months, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The kids from my community continue imprisoned with the burden of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I describe focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We're used to sharing our story to advocate for hostage release, while mourning remains a luxury we cannot afford – and two years later, our efforts continues.

Nothing of this story represents justification for war. I've always been against hostilities from the beginning. The people in the territory have suffered unimaginably.

I am horrified by political choices, while maintaining that the attackers cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed their actions on October 7th. They abandoned the population – causing suffering for everyone due to their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Sharing my story with those who defend the violence feels like failing the deceased. My local circle experiences growing prejudice, and our people back home has struggled versus leadership consistently facing repeated disappointment multiple times.

Across the fields, the devastation in Gaza is visible and visceral. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that various individuals seem willing to provide to the organizations causes hopelessness.