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It unfolded on a morning looking completely ordinary. I was traveling accompanied by my family to pick up a furry companion. Everything seemed steady – then it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I saw updates concerning the frontier. I dialed my mother, hoping for her calm response telling me they were secure. No answer. My father didn't respond either. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his voice instantly communicated the terrible truth even as he explained.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've witnessed countless individuals through news coverage whose worlds had collapsed. Their eyes demonstrating they didn't understand what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The torrent of violence were rising, with the wreckage remained chaotic.

My young one watched me across the seat. I relocated to reach out separately. Once we got to our destination, I saw the brutal execution of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the militants who took over her home.

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

Later, I viewed videos revealing blazes erupting from our family home. Despite this, for days afterward, I denied the house was destroyed – not until my siblings shared with me visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

When we reached our destination, I contacted the puppy provider. "A war has erupted," I explained. "My family are likely gone. Our kibbutz has been taken over by attackers."

The return trip consisted of trying to contact community members while also shielding my child from the awful footage that were emerging through networks.

The footage from that day transcended all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me driven toward Gaza in a vehicle.

People shared Telegram videos that defied reality. A senior community member likewise abducted into the territory. My friend's daughter and her little boys – kids I recently saw – captured by attackers, the fear apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It felt endless for help to arrive the area. Then began the agonizing wait for updates. In the evening, a lone picture circulated showing those who made it. My mother and father were missing.

During the following period, as friends helped forensic teams locate the missing, we scoured online platforms for evidence of those missing. We saw torture and mutilation. We didn't discover footage of my father – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Emerging Picture

Over time, the situation grew more distinct. My senior mother and father – together with numerous community members – were abducted from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. During the violence, one in four of our community members were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mum emerged from captivity. Prior to leaving, she turned and shook hands of the militant. "Hello," she uttered. That gesture – a basic human interaction within unspeakable violence – was shared everywhere.

Five hundred and two days following, Dad's body came back. He died a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These experiences and their documentation continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign to save hostages, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has worsened the original wound.

My family were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, similar to many relatives. We know that hostility and vengeance won't provide the slightest solace from our suffering.

I write this while crying. Over the months, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, not easier. The children from my community remain hostages along with the pressure of what followed feels heavy.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I call dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We're used to discussing events to fight for freedom, while mourning feels like privilege we cannot afford – and two years later, our work continues.

Not one word of this account is intended as justification for war. I've always been against the fighting since it started. The people across the border have suffered unimaginably.

I am horrified by government decisions, while maintaining that the militants shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed their actions that day. They abandoned the population – ensuring suffering for everyone because of their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story among individuals justifying the attackers' actions seems like dishonoring the lost. My community here experiences unprecedented antisemitism, while my community there has fought with the authorities throughout this period facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

From the border, the destruction of the territory can be seen and painful. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that numerous people seem to grant to the attackers makes me despair.