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It started during that morning that seemed entirely routine. I rode together with my loved ones to pick up a new puppy. Life felt predictable – until it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I saw updates from the border. I dialed my mother, anticipating her calm response saying they were secure. No answer. My father was also silent. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his tone already told me the devastating news prior to he explained.

The Developing Horror

I've seen countless individuals in media reports whose worlds were destroyed. Their eyes showing they didn't understand what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of violence were building, and the debris hadn't settled.

My son glanced toward me over his laptop. I moved to make calls in private. By the time we arrived the station, I would witness the terrible killing of a woman from my past – a senior citizen – shown in real-time by the militants who took over her house.

I thought to myself: "Not a single of our friends will survive."

Eventually, I viewed videos showing fire erupting from our residence. Despite this, later on, I denied the house was destroyed – until my family provided photographs and evidence.

The Fallout

Getting to the city, I called the kennel owner. "A war has started," I told them. "My family are likely gone. My community was captured by militants."

The journey home consisted of attempting to reach community members while simultaneously guarding my young one from the awful footage that were emerging across platforms.

The images during those hours exceeded all comprehension. A child from our community seized by armed militants. My former educator transported to the border on a golf cart.

People shared Telegram videos that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured into the territory. A young mother accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the fear in her eyes stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It seemed interminable for the military to come the area. Then began the agonizing wait for updates. Later that afternoon, one photograph emerged of survivors. My mother and father were not among them.

During the following period, as friends worked with authorities locate the missing, we searched online platforms for traces of those missing. We witnessed torture and mutilation. There was no footage of my father – no indication about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the circumstances emerged more fully. My elderly parents – together with 74 others – became captives from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. Amid the terror, a quarter of our neighbors were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my mum left imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she turned and shook hands of her captor. "Peace," she said. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity within unspeakable violence – was broadcast worldwide.

Over 500 days following, Dad's body came back. He was killed just two miles from our home.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the visual proof still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign for the captives, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the initial trauma.

Both my parents remained peace activists. My parent remains, as are most of my family. We know that hate and revenge cannot bring the slightest solace from the pain.

I compose these words through tears. Over the months, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The kids belonging to companions remain hostages along with the pressure of what followed remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I call focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed discussing events to campaign for the captives, despite sorrow feels like privilege we don't have – and two years later, our campaign persists.

No part of this story is intended as justification for war. I continuously rejected this conflict since it started. The population across the border experienced pain terribly.

I am horrified by political choices, while maintaining that the attackers are not benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed their atrocities during those hours. They betrayed the population – creating tragedy on both sides due to their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience with those who defend the attackers' actions feels like dishonoring the lost. My local circle experiences growing prejudice, while my community there has fought against its government throughout this period while experiencing betrayal again and again.

Looking over, the ruin in Gaza can be seen and emotional. It shocks me. At the same time, the complete justification that numerous people seem to grant to the attackers creates discouragement.