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It began that morning that seemed perfectly normal. I rode accompanied by my family to collect a furry companion. The world appeared secure – until it all shifted.

Checking my device, I noticed news from the border. I dialed my mother, expecting her cheerful voice telling me they were secure. Nothing. My parent was also silent. Next, my sibling picked up – his voice instantly communicated the devastating news before he explained.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've observed numerous faces on television whose lives were destroyed. Their eyes showing they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Now it was me. The deluge of horror were rising, amid the destruction was still swirling.

My young one looked at me from his screen. I shifted to make calls alone. Once we got to the station, I would witness the terrible killing of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the terrorists who captured her home.

I recall believing: "Not one of our friends could live through this."

At some point, I witnessed recordings showing fire bursting through our residence. Despite this, in the following days, I refused to accept the building was gone – before my brothers shared with me images and proof.

The Consequences

Getting to the city, I phoned the puppy provider. "A war has begun," I explained. "My parents may not survive. Our kibbutz has been taken over by attackers."

The journey home consisted of attempting to reach loved ones while simultaneously protecting my son from the horrific images that circulated across platforms.

The images from that day were beyond all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son seized by several attackers. Someone who taught me driven toward the border using transportation.

Friends sent digital recordings appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured into the territory. A young mother with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – seized by militants, the terror in her eyes stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt endless for the military to come the area. Then started the painful anticipation for information. As time passed, one photograph circulated showing those who made it. My mother and father weren't there.

During the following period, as friends worked with authorities identify victims, we scoured online platforms for traces of those missing. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. There was no recordings showing my parent – no indication regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the reality became clearer. My aged family – along with numerous community members – were abducted from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. In the chaos, one in four of our community members were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my mother left imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of her captor. "Peace," she said. That image – a basic human interaction amid unspeakable violence – was transmitted everywhere.

Five hundred and two days afterward, Dad's body came back. He was killed just two miles from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These experiences and the visual proof remain with me. Everything that followed – our determined activism for the captives, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the primary pain.

My family remained campaigners for reconciliation. My parent remains, as are many relatives. We know that hate and revenge cannot bring the slightest solace from the pain.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. As time passes, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, not easier. The kids of my friends are still captive along with the pressure of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I term dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed sharing our story to advocate for freedom, though grieving feels like privilege we cannot afford – after 24 months, our work endures.

Not one word of this story is intended as justification for war. I continuously rejected hostilities from day one. The people across the border endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the militants are not innocent activists. Having seen their atrocities during those hours. They failed the community – creating pain for all due to their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth with those who defend the attackers' actions feels like dishonoring the lost. My community here experiences growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled versus leadership for two years facing repeated disappointment multiple times.

Across the fields, the destruction of the territory is visible and visceral. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that numerous people appear to offer to the attackers creates discouragement.