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It unfolded on a morning appearing perfectly normal. I journeyed together with my loved ones to pick up a furry companion. Life felt secure – before everything changed.

Checking my device, I noticed news concerning the frontier. I dialed my mum, anticipating her cheerful voice telling me everything was fine. Nothing. My dad was also silent. Next, I reached my brother – his voice immediately revealed the terrible truth prior to he spoke.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've seen so many people in media reports whose worlds were destroyed. Their expressions showing they didn't understand their loss. Then it became our turn. The torrent of violence were overwhelming, with the wreckage was still swirling.

My son looked at me over his laptop. I relocated to contact people in private. When we reached the city, I saw the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the terrorists who captured her residence.

I recall believing: "None of our friends will survive."

Eventually, I saw footage showing fire consuming our house. Even then, for days afterward, I refused to accept the building was gone – before my family provided images and proof.

The Aftermath

Getting to our destination, I called the puppy provider. "A war has begun," I said. "My parents are probably dead. Our neighborhood fell to by attackers."

The return trip involved trying to contact loved ones while also shielding my child from the horrific images that spread everywhere.

The scenes from that day exceeded anything we could imagine. A child from our community captured by several attackers. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of the territory using transportation.

Friends sent digital recordings that defied reality. A senior community member similarly captured across the border. A woman I knew with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – seized by attackers, the horror apparent in her expression stunning.

The Long Wait

It seemed endless for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then started the terrible uncertainty for information. In the evening, a single image emerged depicting escapees. My mother and father were not among them.

Over many days, as community members assisted investigators document losses, we scoured online platforms for traces of those missing. We encountered brutality and violence. We never found recordings showing my parent – no clue regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the circumstances emerged more fully. My aged family – along with dozens more – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, 25 percent of the residents were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my parent was released from confinement. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and shook hands of the militant. "Peace," she uttered. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity within indescribable tragedy – was shared everywhere.

Over 500 days following, my father's remains were recovered. He was murdered just two miles from our home.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the visual proof remain with me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has intensified the primary pain.

Both my parents were lifelong advocates for peace. My parent remains, as are other loved ones. We know that hostility and vengeance don't offer any comfort from the pain.

I share these thoughts while crying. Over the months, discussing these events grows harder, instead of improving. The children belonging to companions continue imprisoned and the weight of subsequent events is overwhelming.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I describe remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We're used to telling our experience to campaign for freedom, despite sorrow remains a luxury we cannot afford – and two years later, our campaign persists.

Not one word of this narrative represents justification for war. I have consistently opposed hostilities from day one. The population in the territory endured tragedy unimaginably.

I am horrified by government decisions, but I also insist that the organization shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Because I know their actions during those hours. They betrayed the community – ensuring pain for all through their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience with people supporting the violence appears as betraying my dead. My local circle faces growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought against its government throughout this period while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

Across the fields, the devastation of the territory is visible and painful. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that various individuals seem to grant to militant groups creates discouragement.