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It unfolded that morning that seemed entirely routine. I journeyed together with my loved ones to welcome our new dog. Life felt predictable – until it all shifted.

Checking my device, I noticed reports about the border region. I called my mother, expecting her reassuring tone explaining everything was fine. Nothing. My father couldn't be reached. Then, I reached my brother – his tone already told me the awful reality prior to he spoke.

The Developing Horror

I've seen so many people on television whose lives were destroyed. Their gaze demonstrating they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The torrent of violence were rising, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My young one glanced toward me across the seat. I shifted to contact people separately. Once we arrived the city, I encountered the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the terrorists who seized her house.

I remember thinking: "Not a single of our loved ones will survive."

Later, I witnessed recordings depicting flames erupting from our residence. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I denied the home had burned – not until my siblings shared with me images and proof.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at the city, I phoned the puppy provider. "Hostilities has started," I explained. "My family are likely gone. My community was captured by attackers."

The ride back was spent trying to contact community members while simultaneously guarding my young one from the horrific images that spread everywhere.

The footage during those hours were beyond all comprehension. A child from our community captured by several attackers. My mathematics teacher driven toward Gaza on a golf cart.

Friends sent Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured across the border. A young mother with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – captured by attackers, the fear visible on her face devastating.

The Painful Period

It seemed endless for the military to come the area. Then commenced the agonizing wait for news. In the evening, a lone picture emerged of survivors. My mother and father were not among them.

During the following period, as community members worked with authorities locate the missing, we searched the internet for signs of those missing. We encountered torture and mutilation. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Emerging Picture

Over time, the situation emerged more fully. My aged family – along with 74 others – became captives from their home. My father was 83, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, one in four of the residents lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my parent was released from captivity. Prior to leaving, she looked back and shook hands of the militant. "Shalom," she spoke. That gesture – a simple human connection within unspeakable violence – was shared worldwide.

Over 500 days following, my parent's physical presence came back. He was killed a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These events and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign for the captives, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the primary pain.

My mother and father remained campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, as are many relatives. We recognize that hate and revenge won't provide even momentary relief from this tragedy.

I write this while crying. Over the months, talking about what happened grows harder, rather than simpler. The children belonging to companions remain hostages along with the pressure of what followed remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I term remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We typically telling our experience to fight for hostage release, despite sorrow remains a luxury we cannot afford – after 24 months, our work persists.

Not one word of this account represents justification for war. I've always been against the fighting from day one. The population across the border have suffered terribly.

I am horrified by political choices, but I also insist that the attackers shouldn't be viewed as innocent activists. Having seen what they did during those hours. They betrayed the population – causing pain for all through their violent beliefs.

The Community Split

Sharing my story with people supporting the attackers' actions seems like dishonoring the lost. My community here experiences growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled with the authorities consistently and been betrayed multiple times.

Looking over, the destruction across the frontier can be seen and emotional. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that various individuals seem willing to provide to the attackers makes me despair.