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It started that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I was traveling accompanied by my family to pick up our new dog. Life felt predictable – then it all shifted.

Checking my device, I saw reports concerning the frontier. I dialed my mum, hoping for her calm response explaining she was safe. No answer. My parent didn't respond either. Then, I reached my brother – his voice instantly communicated the awful reality before he explained.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've seen countless individuals in media reports whose lives had collapsed. Their eyes revealing they didn't understand their loss. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of tragedy were building, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My young one watched me over his laptop. I shifted to make calls separately. When we reached the city, I would witness the brutal execution of a woman from my past – a senior citizen – shown in real-time by the militants who took over her house.

I recall believing: "Not one of our friends will survive."

Eventually, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes consuming our house. Even then, in the following days, I refused to accept the building was gone – until my siblings shared with me photographs and evidence.

The Consequences

When we reached our destination, I contacted the kennel owner. "Hostilities has started," I said. "My parents are likely gone. Our kibbutz has been taken over by militants."

The journey home was spent trying to contact loved ones while also shielding my child from the awful footage that spread through networks.

The images from that day exceeded anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher transported to the border using transportation.

People shared digital recordings appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted across the border. A young mother and her little boys – boys I knew well – captured by armed terrorists, the fear apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It appeared endless for assistance to reach the area. Then began the agonizing wait for information. As time passed, a lone picture appeared showing those who made it. My family weren't there.

Over many days, as friends helped forensic teams identify victims, we combed digital spaces for evidence of family members. We encountered brutality and violence. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no indication about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Over time, the circumstances became clearer. My aged family – along with numerous community members – became captives from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. In the chaos, 25 percent of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my mother emerged from confinement. As she left, she turned and shook hands of her captor. "Shalom," she uttered. That moment – a basic human interaction within unspeakable violence – was broadcast worldwide.

Over 500 days later, Dad's body were returned. He was killed only kilometers from where we lived.

The Persistent Wound

These events and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign to save hostages, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the primary pain.

My family remained campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, as are other loved ones. We understand that hostility and vengeance don't offer any comfort from this tragedy.

I compose these words through tears. As time passes, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The young ones belonging to companions continue imprisoned along with the pressure of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I call focusing on the trauma "immersed in suffering". We typically telling our experience to advocate for the captives, while mourning seems unaffordable we don't have – and two years later, our campaign continues.

No part of this account represents justification for war. I have consistently opposed this conflict since it started. The population of Gaza have suffered beyond imagination.

I'm shocked by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the organization shouldn't be viewed as innocent activists. Having seen their atrocities on October 7th. They betrayed the population – ensuring suffering for everyone through their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth with those who defend what happened feels like betraying my dead. The people around me confronts unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought with the authorities consistently facing repeated disappointment again and again.

Looking over, the devastation across the frontier is visible and emotional. It horrifies me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that numerous people appear to offer to the attackers creates discouragement.