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It started that morning looking entirely routine. I journeyed together with my loved ones to pick up a new puppy. The world appeared secure – before it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed news concerning the frontier. I called my mum, expecting her reassuring tone telling me they were secure. No answer. My parent couldn't be reached. Then, my brother answered – his tone instantly communicated the devastating news prior to he explained.

The Unfolding Tragedy

I've observed so many people on television whose existence had collapsed. Their eyes revealing they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The torrent of violence were building, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My child glanced toward me from his screen. I relocated to make calls separately. By the time we got to the city, I saw the brutal execution of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the militants who seized her residence.

I recall believing: "None of our family will survive."

Eventually, I saw footage revealing blazes bursting through our house. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I refused to accept the building was gone – until my family shared with me images and proof.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at the city, I phoned the dog breeder. "Hostilities has erupted," I said. "My family are likely gone. Our kibbutz has been taken over by militants."

The return trip was spent attempting to reach loved ones while simultaneously shielding my child from the terrible visuals that were emerging through networks.

The footage from that day exceeded all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of the territory on a golf cart.

Individuals circulated social media clips appearing unbelievable. My mother's elderly companion likewise abducted across the border. A young mother with her two small sons – boys I knew well – seized by militants, the fear in her eyes paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It appeared endless for assistance to reach our community. Then started the painful anticipation for news. Later that afternoon, a single image emerged depicting escapees. My parents were missing.

Over many days, as community members helped forensic teams identify victims, we scoured the internet for evidence of our loved ones. We witnessed torture and mutilation. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the circumstances became clearer. My aged family – along with 74 others – became captives from the community. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, 25 percent of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum emerged from confinement. Before departing, she turned and grasped the hand of the guard. "Shalom," she said. That gesture – a basic human interaction during unspeakable violence – was transmitted globally.

More than sixteen months following, Dad's body were recovered. He was killed a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and their documentation remain with me. The two years since – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the initial trauma.

Both my parents were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, like many relatives. We recognize that hate and revenge don't offer any comfort from our suffering.

I write this amid sorrow. As time passes, sharing the experience grows harder, not easier. The kids belonging to companions are still captive and the weight of what followed is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I describe remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We're used to sharing our story to fight for hostage release, while mourning feels like privilege we cannot afford – and two years later, our work continues.

Not one word of this story represents support for conflict. I continuously rejected hostilities from day one. The residents across the border have suffered unimaginably.

I'm appalled by political choices, while maintaining that the attackers shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Because I know what they did on October 7th. They betrayed their own people – causing tragedy on both sides due to their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story with people supporting what happened feels like betraying my dead. My local circle faces growing prejudice, and our people back home has fought versus leadership consistently facing repeated disappointment multiple times.

Across the fields, the destruction in Gaza can be seen and visceral. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that many seem willing to provide to the attackers creates discouragement.