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It began during that morning appearing entirely routine. I rode together with my loved ones to welcome a furry companion. The world appeared secure – then reality shattered.

Checking my device, I discovered updates concerning the frontier. I dialed my parent, expecting her reassuring tone explaining she was safe. No answer. My father didn't respond either. Next, I reached my brother – his voice already told me the terrible truth prior to he explained.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've witnessed so many people on television whose worlds had collapsed. Their gaze showing they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Now it was me. The torrent of horror were overwhelming, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My young one glanced toward me across the seat. I moved to reach out separately. When we arrived our destination, I would witness the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the terrorists who took over her house.

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

Eventually, I saw footage depicting flames bursting through our residence. Even then, in the following days, I couldn't believe the building was gone – before my siblings sent me images and proof.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at our destination, I called the dog breeder. "A war has begun," I said. "My parents may not survive. My community fell to by attackers."

The journey home consisted of searching for friends and family and at the same time guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that circulated everywhere.

The footage from that day were beyond anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by armed militants. My former educator driven toward the border in a vehicle.

People shared digital recordings that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted into the territory. A young mother accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – seized by attackers, the terror visible on her face devastating.

The Painful Period

It appeared endless for the military to come our community. Then started the painful anticipation for updates. Later that afternoon, a single image appeared depicting escapees. My family were not among them.

Over many days, as friends assisted investigators identify victims, we searched online platforms for evidence of those missing. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no indication about his final moments.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the circumstances became clearer. My senior mother and father – as well as dozens more – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. During the violence, a quarter of the residents were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my mum was released from confinement. As she left, she turned and offered a handshake of the guard. "Peace," she said. That gesture – a basic human interaction during unspeakable violence – was transmitted everywhere.

More than sixteen months afterward, my parent's physical presence came back. He was killed a short distance from our home.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and their documentation continue to haunt me. The two years since – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the initial trauma.

My mother and father had always been advocates for peace. My parent remains, like other loved ones. We know that hostility and vengeance don't offer any comfort from the pain.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. As time passes, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, rather than simpler. The children from my community continue imprisoned with the burden of what followed remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I describe remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We've become accustomed sharing our story to advocate for the captives, while mourning seems unaffordable we cannot afford – after 24 months, our efforts continues.

No part of this account represents endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected the fighting from the beginning. The people of Gaza have suffered unimaginably.

I am horrified by government decisions, but I also insist that the militants are not benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed what they did on October 7th. They failed their own people – creating pain for all because of their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience with those who defend the attackers' actions appears as failing the deceased. My community here confronts growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled with the authorities throughout this period and been betrayed multiple times.

From the border, the devastation in Gaza can be seen and painful. It shocks me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that numerous people appear to offer to the organizations creates discouragement.