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It started on a morning that seemed entirely routine. I rode together with my loved ones to pick up our new dog. Life felt predictable – before reality shattered.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered news from the border. I tried reaching my mum, anticipating her cheerful voice telling me they were secure. Nothing. My parent was also silent. Afterward, I reached my brother – his voice already told me the terrible truth prior to he spoke.

The Developing Tragedy

I've observed so many people on television whose lives had collapsed. Their expressions showing they didn't understand their loss. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of horror were rising, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My son glanced toward me over his laptop. I relocated to make calls in private. Once we reached the station, I would witness the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the attackers who captured her home.

I thought to myself: "Not one of our family could live through this."

Eventually, I viewed videos revealing blazes erupting from our house. Even then, for days afterward, I denied the house was destroyed – not until my brothers provided visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at the station, I contacted the dog breeder. "Conflict has erupted," I said. "My mother and father are likely gone. My community fell to by terrorists."

The journey home was spent attempting to reach friends and family and at the same time guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that circulated through networks.

The scenes from that day exceeded any possible expectation. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by several attackers. My former educator taken in the direction of the territory in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated social media clips that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured to Gaza. A young mother with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – seized by militants, the terror apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It seemed interminable for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then commenced the agonizing wait for news. In the evening, one photograph appeared depicting escapees. My mother and father were missing.

Over many days, as friends helped forensic teams document losses, we searched the internet for evidence of family members. We saw brutality and violence. We never found recordings showing my parent – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Over time, the situation became clearer. My elderly parents – along with 74 others – were abducted from their home. My parent was in his eighties, my mother 85. During the violence, a quarter of our neighbors were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my parent left confinement. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and shook hands of her captor. "Peace," she spoke. That image – an elemental act of humanity during unspeakable violence – was broadcast globally.

Over 500 days following, Dad's body were returned. He was killed only kilometers from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. Everything that followed – our determined activism for the captives, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the initial trauma.

My mother and father were lifelong advocates for peace. Mom continues, similar to many relatives. We know that hostility and vengeance don't offer any comfort from our suffering.

I write this while crying. With each day, sharing the experience grows harder, instead of improving. The children belonging to companions continue imprisoned and the weight of what followed feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I call remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed telling our experience to campaign for the captives, while mourning feels like privilege we cannot afford – and two years later, our efforts persists.

Not one word of this narrative serves as justification for war. I have consistently opposed this conflict from the beginning. The residents across the border endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I am horrified by political choices, but I also insist that the organization are not benign resistance fighters. Because I know their atrocities during those hours. They betrayed the community – creating tragedy on both sides through their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience with people supporting what happened appears as dishonoring the lost. My community here experiences unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned with the authorities throughout this period while experiencing betrayal again and again.

Across the fields, the destruction in Gaza appears clearly and visceral. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that numerous people seem to grant to the organizations makes me despair.