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It unfolded on a morning appearing perfectly normal. I rode accompanied by my family to collect our new dog. The world appeared steady – until everything changed.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed reports concerning the frontier. I tried reaching my mum, anticipating her reassuring tone telling me they were secure. No answer. My dad was also silent. Then, my sibling picked up – his voice immediately revealed the devastating news prior to he explained.

The Unfolding Horror

I've observed numerous faces on television whose worlds had collapsed. Their eyes demonstrating they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Now it was me. The torrent of horror were rising, and the debris remained chaotic.

My child glanced toward me from his screen. I shifted to reach out separately. Once we got to the station, I would witness the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the terrorists who captured her house.

I recall believing: "None of our friends could live through this."

Later, I saw footage depicting flames bursting through our house. Nonetheless, in the following days, I couldn't believe the home had burned – not until my siblings shared with me photographs and evidence.

The Consequences

When we reached our destination, I phoned the dog breeder. "Hostilities has begun," I explained. "My mother and father are probably dead. Our neighborhood was captured by militants."

The ride back was spent searching for community members while also guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that were emerging across platforms.

The scenes during those hours exceeded all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by armed militants. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of Gaza in a vehicle.

People shared social media clips that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured to Gaza. A young mother accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the fear apparent in her expression devastating.

The Painful Period

It appeared interminable for assistance to reach our community. Then started the terrible uncertainty for information. Later that afternoon, one photograph appeared of survivors. My mother and father weren't there.

For days and weeks, as community members assisted investigators document losses, we combed the internet for traces of family members. We witnessed torture and mutilation. We didn't discover footage of my father – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Over time, the situation emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – as well as 74 others – were abducted from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. In the chaos, a quarter of the residents lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my mother left captivity. Prior to leaving, she turned and offered a handshake of the militant. "Peace," she uttered. That image – a simple human connection amid indescribable tragedy – was shared everywhere.

Five hundred and two days following, my parent's physical presence were recovered. He died only kilometers from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These experiences and their documentation still terrorize me. The two years since – our desperate campaign to save hostages, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has worsened the initial trauma.

My mother and father were lifelong advocates for peace. Mom continues, like many relatives. We know that hate and revenge won't provide even momentary relief from our suffering.

I write this through tears. As time passes, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The children of my friends continue imprisoned along with the pressure of what followed is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I call remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We're used to telling our experience to advocate for freedom, though grieving seems unaffordable we lack – and two years later, our work endures.

Nothing of this account is intended as support for conflict. I continuously rejected hostilities from day one. The population across the border have suffered unimaginably.

I am horrified by political choices, but I also insist that the organization shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Having seen their atrocities that day. They abandoned their own people – causing tragedy on both sides because of their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Sharing my story with people supporting the attackers' actions feels like betraying my dead. My community here experiences rising hostility, and our people back home has campaigned with the authorities throughout this period facing repeated disappointment multiple times.

From the border, the ruin of the territory can be seen and emotional. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that various individuals appear to offer to the attackers causes hopelessness.