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It started that morning looking completely ordinary. I was traveling accompanied by my family to welcome a new puppy. Everything seemed secure – before it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I noticed reports from the border. I called my mum, anticipating her reassuring tone explaining she was safe. Nothing. My parent couldn't be reached. Then, I reached my brother – his voice already told me the terrible truth even as he spoke.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've observed numerous faces through news coverage whose worlds were torn apart. Their expressions revealing they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Now it was me. The torrent of tragedy were building, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My son watched me from his screen. I moved to contact people alone. When we reached the station, I encountered the terrible killing of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the terrorists who captured her residence.

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

Eventually, I witnessed recordings depicting flames erupting from our residence. Even then, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – before my brothers provided images and proof.

The Consequences

Upon arriving at the station, I phoned the kennel owner. "Conflict has erupted," I told them. "My mother and father are probably dead. My community fell to by attackers."

The return trip consisted of trying to contact loved ones while simultaneously guarding my young one from the awful footage that circulated everywhere.

The scenes from that day exceeded anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by multiple terrorists. My former educator transported to the border on a golf cart.

Friends sent digital recordings that defied reality. A senior community member similarly captured across the border. A woman I knew with her two small sons – children I had played with – captured by militants, the terror visible on her face paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It felt to take forever for help to arrive our community. Then began the painful anticipation for updates. As time passed, one photograph emerged showing those who made it. My mother and father were missing.

Over many days, as friends assisted investigators identify victims, we searched digital spaces for traces of family members. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the reality grew more distinct. My senior mother and father – as well as 74 others – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, my mother 85. During the violence, 25 percent of the residents lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my mum left imprisonment. As she left, she turned and shook hands of the guard. "Shalom," she said. That image – a simple human connection within unspeakable violence – was broadcast everywhere.

Five hundred and two days following, my father's remains were returned. He was murdered a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and the visual proof remain with me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts to save hostages, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the destruction across the border – has intensified the primary pain.

Both my parents were lifelong advocates for peace. My mother still is, as are most of my family. We recognize that hate and revenge cannot bring any comfort from this tragedy.

I share these thoughts while crying. With each day, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The children belonging to companions are still captive and the weight of what followed feels heavy.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I call dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We're used to sharing our story to fight for the captives, while mourning feels like privilege we lack – now, our work continues.

No part of this story serves as endorsement of violence. I've always been against the fighting since it started. The population across the border endured tragedy terribly.

I am horrified by leadership actions, but I also insist that the attackers are not innocent activists. Since I witnessed what they did that day. They betrayed the population – ensuring suffering for everyone because of their deadly philosophy.

The Community Split

Telling my truth among individuals justifying what happened feels like dishonoring the lost. My local circle confronts growing prejudice, while my community there has struggled against its government consistently facing repeated disappointment again and again.

Across the fields, the ruin across the frontier is visible and emotional. It horrifies me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that various individuals seem willing to provide to the organizations creates discouragement.