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It started during that morning looking completely ordinary. I journeyed together with my loved ones to pick up a new puppy. Life felt secure – until it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I discovered news concerning the frontier. I called my mother, anticipating her calm response saying everything was fine. Silence. My dad was also silent. Next, my sibling picked up – his tone already told me the terrible truth before he explained.

The Emerging Horror

I've witnessed countless individuals in media reports whose lives had collapsed. Their expressions revealing they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of violence were overwhelming, with the wreckage remained chaotic.

My young one glanced toward me across the seat. I moved to contact people separately. When we reached the station, I saw the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the attackers who captured her house.

I thought to myself: "Not a single of our family would make it."

Eventually, I witnessed recordings showing fire consuming our residence. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the building was gone – not until my family shared with me images and proof.

The Aftermath

Getting to the city, I contacted the kennel owner. "Conflict has erupted," I said. "My parents are likely gone. Our neighborhood has been taken over by militants."

The return trip consisted of attempting to reach community members while simultaneously protecting my son from the terrible visuals that spread across platforms.

The scenes from that day were beyond all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by several attackers. My mathematics teacher transported to the border in a vehicle.

Friends sent digital recordings that defied reality. A senior community member also taken into the territory. A young mother with her two small sons – boys I knew well – captured by armed terrorists, the terror visible on her face paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It appeared to take forever for help to arrive the kibbutz. Then began the terrible uncertainty for information. In the evening, one photograph appeared of survivors. My family were not among them.

For days and weeks, while neighbors worked with authorities locate the missing, we scoured online platforms for evidence of our loved ones. We encountered torture and mutilation. We never found recordings showing my parent – no evidence about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Over time, the reality emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – as well as dozens more – were taken hostage from the community. My father was 83, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, 25 percent of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

Seventeen days later, my parent emerged from confinement. Before departing, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of the guard. "Peace," she spoke. That gesture – a basic human interaction during indescribable tragedy – was broadcast globally.

Five hundred and two days afterward, my parent's physical presence came back. He was murdered a short distance from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These experiences and their documentation continue to haunt me. The two years since – our determined activism to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the primary pain.

My mother and father had always been advocates for peace. My mother still is, like other loved ones. We know that hate and revenge won't provide the slightest solace from the pain.

I compose these words through tears. Over the months, sharing the experience grows harder, not easier. The young ones from my community are still captive and the weight of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I call dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We've become accustomed telling our experience to advocate for the captives, though grieving feels like privilege we cannot afford – now, our campaign persists.

Nothing of this account is intended as endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected hostilities from day one. The residents of Gaza endured tragedy terribly.

I'm appalled by leadership actions, but I also insist that the attackers cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Having seen their actions on October 7th. They betrayed the population – creating pain for all through their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying the attackers' actions appears as dishonoring the lost. My local circle experiences unprecedented antisemitism, while my community there has fought against its government throughout this period while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

From the border, the devastation across the frontier can be seen and painful. It shocks me. At the same time, the complete justification that many seem willing to provide to militant groups creates discouragement.