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It unfolded during that morning looking completely ordinary. I rode accompanied by my family to welcome a new puppy. The world appeared steady – until it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I discovered updates from the border. I dialed my mum, expecting her calm response telling me everything was fine. Nothing. My father couldn't be reached. Then, my sibling picked up – his voice already told me the terrible truth prior to he spoke.

The Developing Tragedy

I've observed countless individuals in media reports whose lives were destroyed. Their eyes revealing they didn't understand their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The torrent of horror were overwhelming, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My son watched me over his laptop. I relocated to contact people alone. Once we arrived the city, I saw the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the attackers who captured her home.

I remember thinking: "Not one of our friends could live through this."

At some point, I viewed videos revealing blazes erupting from our residence. Even then, later on, I denied the home had burned – until my siblings provided images and proof.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at our destination, I called the puppy provider. "A war has started," I told them. "My mother and father are probably dead. Our neighborhood fell to by attackers."

The journey home consisted of attempting to reach loved ones while simultaneously shielding my child from the horrific images that spread across platforms.

The footage from that day were beyond anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son taken by armed militants. Someone who taught me taken in the direction of Gaza using transportation.

Individuals circulated digital recordings that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend also taken across the border. A woman I knew and her little boys – boys I knew well – captured by militants, the fear visible on her face devastating.

The Painful Period

It felt interminable for assistance to reach the area. Then started the terrible uncertainty for information. Later that afternoon, one photograph appeared depicting escapees. My mother and father were not among them.

During the following period, as community members worked with authorities document losses, we searched digital spaces for evidence of family members. We encountered atrocities and horrors. There was no recordings showing my parent – no clue regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the reality became clearer. My senior mother and father – together with 74 others – were abducted from their home. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. During the violence, a quarter of our neighbors were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my mum emerged from confinement. As she left, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of the militant. "Peace," she spoke. That image – a simple human connection amid indescribable tragedy – was broadcast globally.

Five hundred and two days later, Dad's body were recovered. He was killed a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Continuing Trauma

These experiences and their documentation continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the initial trauma.

My family were lifelong peace activists. My parent remains, as are many relatives. We know that hostility and vengeance won't provide even momentary relief from our suffering.

I write this through tears. As time passes, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, not easier. The young ones belonging to companions remain hostages along with the pressure of what followed remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I term remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We typically sharing our story to advocate for the captives, despite sorrow seems unaffordable we lack – and two years later, our work persists.

Not one word of this story is intended as support for conflict. I've always been against hostilities from the beginning. The people in the territory endured tragedy unimaginably.

I am horrified by leadership actions, while maintaining that the militants cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Having seen their atrocities on October 7th. They failed their own people – creating tragedy on both sides because of their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story with people supporting the violence seems like failing the deceased. My local circle faces rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned with the authorities consistently and been betrayed again and again.

From the border, the devastation in Gaza is visible and painful. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that various individuals appear to offer to the attackers creates discouragement.