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It began that morning appearing entirely routine. I journeyed together with my loved ones to pick up a furry companion. Life felt secure – before it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I saw updates from the border. I tried reaching my mum, anticipating her reassuring tone saying they were secure. No answer. My parent was also silent. Next, my brother answered – his speech already told me the devastating news before he said anything.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've witnessed countless individuals on television whose lives were torn apart. Their expressions showing they didn't understand their tragedy. Now it was me. The torrent of violence were building, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My young one glanced toward me over his laptop. I shifted to make calls separately. When we reached our destination, I saw the terrible killing of a woman from my past – a senior citizen – shown in real-time by the militants who took over her residence.

I recall believing: "Not a single of our family could live through this."

At some point, I witnessed recordings depicting flames bursting through our house. Despite this, later on, I denied the house was destroyed – not until my brothers provided images and proof.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at our destination, I called the kennel owner. "A war has begun," I said. "My mother and father are likely gone. Our neighborhood has been taken over by militants."

The return trip involved attempting to reach loved ones and at the same time shielding my child from the awful footage that were emerging everywhere.

The images during those hours were beyond all comprehension. A child from our community taken by armed militants. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of Gaza using transportation.

People shared Telegram videos that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend also taken across the border. A woman I knew accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – seized by militants, the horror visible on her face stunning.

The Long Wait

It seemed interminable for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then commenced the agonizing wait for updates. In the evening, a lone picture appeared of survivors. My parents were not among them.

Over many days, as friends worked with authorities locate the missing, we combed online platforms for traces of our loved ones. We encountered atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no indication regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Over time, the reality grew more distinct. My elderly parents – along with dozens more – were abducted from their home. My parent was in his eighties, my other parent was elderly. In the chaos, one in four of the residents were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother was released from confinement. As she left, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of the guard. "Peace," she spoke. That gesture – a simple human connection during indescribable tragedy – was broadcast globally.

Five hundred and two days later, my father's remains were recovered. He was killed just two miles from where we lived.

The Persistent Wound

These experiences and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. The two years since – our desperate campaign for the captives, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has compounded the primary pain.

Both my parents remained advocates for peace. Mom continues, as are many relatives. We know that hostility and vengeance won't provide any comfort from the pain.

I write this while crying. Over the months, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, not easier. The young ones of my friends remain hostages and the weight of the aftermath feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I term remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We've become accustomed sharing our story to advocate for freedom, while mourning feels like privilege we lack – after 24 months, our efforts endures.

No part of this narrative represents support for conflict. I've always been against hostilities since it started. The population in the territory endured tragedy terribly.

I'm appalled by leadership actions, while maintaining that the organization are not innocent activists. Since I witnessed what they did during those hours. They betrayed the population – causing pain for all due to their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth with people supporting the violence appears as betraying my dead. My local circle confronts unprecedented antisemitism, and our people back home has fought with the authorities throughout this period while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

Across the fields, the destruction across the frontier can be seen and painful. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that various individuals appear to offer to the attackers creates discouragement.