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It unfolded on a morning appearing perfectly normal. I rode accompanied by my family to collect a new puppy. Everything seemed predictable – before reality shattered.

Glancing at my screen, I saw updates from the border. I dialed my mother, anticipating her cheerful voice telling me they were secure. Nothing. My dad couldn't be reached. Next, my brother answered – his tone immediately revealed the devastating news even as he said anything.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've witnessed countless individuals in media reports whose lives had collapsed. Their expressions showing they didn't understand what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of horror were overwhelming, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My child watched me across the seat. I moved to contact people alone. By the time we got to the station, I saw the terrible killing of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the militants who seized her house.

I thought to myself: "None of our family would make it."

Later, I saw footage depicting flames consuming our family home. Even then, later on, I refused to accept the house was destroyed – before my family sent me photographs and evidence.

The Consequences

Getting to the station, I phoned the kennel owner. "Conflict has begun," I explained. "My family are probably dead. Our kibbutz was captured by terrorists."

The journey home consisted of searching for friends and family while simultaneously protecting my son from the awful footage that were emerging across platforms.

The footage during those hours were beyond all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by armed militants. My former educator taken in the direction of the territory in a vehicle.

People shared Telegram videos that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion also taken across the border. A woman I knew accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – seized by armed terrorists, the fear in her eyes paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It seemed to take forever for help to arrive the area. Then commenced the agonizing wait for information. As time passed, a lone picture circulated of survivors. My mother and father weren't there.

For days and weeks, while neighbors worked with authorities locate the missing, we searched the internet for traces of those missing. We witnessed brutality and violence. We never found recordings showing my parent – no clue about his final moments.

The Developing Reality

Gradually, the circumstances emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – as well as dozens more – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, my other parent was elderly. In the chaos, a quarter of our neighbors were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my parent left captivity. Before departing, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of the militant. "Peace," she said. That image – an elemental act of humanity during indescribable tragedy – was transmitted worldwide.

More than sixteen months following, my parent's physical presence were returned. He was murdered just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These experiences and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. The two years since – our urgent efforts to save hostages, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the initial trauma.

Both my parents were lifelong advocates for peace. My parent remains, similar to other loved ones. We recognize that animosity and retaliation don't offer any comfort from this tragedy.

I compose these words through tears. With each day, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The young ones belonging to companions continue imprisoned and the weight of what followed remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I term dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We've become accustomed telling our experience to campaign for hostage release, while mourning remains a luxury we lack – and two years later, our campaign endures.

Not one word of this story represents justification for war. I've always been against hostilities since it started. The residents in the territory have suffered unimaginably.

I'm shocked by political choices, but I also insist that the militants are not peaceful protesters. Having seen what they did that day. They betrayed the population – causing pain for all through their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story with people supporting the attackers' actions appears as failing the deceased. My community here experiences unprecedented antisemitism, and our people back home has struggled against its government consistently and been betrayed again and again.

Across the fields, the destruction across the frontier appears clearly and emotional. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that many seem to grant to the attackers causes hopelessness.