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It started during that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I journeyed together with my loved ones to collect a furry companion. The world appeared predictable – then reality shattered.

Checking my device, I noticed updates about the border region. I tried reaching my mum, anticipating her calm response explaining everything was fine. No answer. My father couldn't be reached. Then, my sibling picked up – his voice already told me the devastating news before he explained.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've observed numerous faces through news coverage whose lives had collapsed. Their expressions showing they didn't understand their loss. Now it was me. The deluge of tragedy were overwhelming, and the debris hadn't settled.

My young one looked at me over his laptop. I shifted to reach out in private. By the time we arrived the station, I saw the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the militants who seized her home.

I recall believing: "None of our family would make it."

Later, I saw footage revealing blazes bursting through our house. Nonetheless, in the following days, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – not until my brothers sent me photographs and evidence.

The Fallout

When we reached our destination, I contacted the kennel owner. "A war has erupted," I explained. "My parents are probably dead. Our neighborhood fell to by attackers."

The ride back consisted of searching for community members while simultaneously protecting my son from the awful footage that spread through networks.

The scenes during those hours transcended all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son seized by several attackers. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of the territory in a vehicle.

People shared Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted into the territory. A young mother with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by attackers, the horror apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It felt endless for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then started the agonizing wait for updates. As time passed, a single image circulated of survivors. My parents weren't there.

During the following period, as friends helped forensic teams identify victims, we combed digital spaces for traces of those missing. We encountered brutality and violence. There was no footage of my father – no evidence about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the reality became clearer. My elderly parents – along with 74 others – became captives from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. In the chaos, a quarter of our community members were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother was released from confinement. Before departing, she turned and offered a handshake of the militant. "Shalom," she uttered. That moment – an elemental act of humanity during unspeakable violence – was transmitted globally.

Five hundred and two days later, my father's remains were returned. He was killed just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the visual proof remain with me. The two years since – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has compounded the initial trauma.

Both my parents remained peace activists. My parent remains, as are other loved ones. We understand that hostility and vengeance cannot bring any comfort from the pain.

I compose these words while crying. As time passes, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, not easier. The kids from my community continue imprisoned along with the pressure of what followed remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I describe remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We typically sharing our story to campaign for hostage release, despite sorrow feels like privilege we don't have – now, our campaign endures.

Not one word of this story is intended as justification for war. I continuously rejected the fighting from day one. The residents across the border experienced pain terribly.

I am horrified by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the militants shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Having seen their actions that day. They abandoned the community – creating pain for all because of their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth with people supporting what happened seems like dishonoring the lost. The people around me faces rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought against its government consistently while experiencing betrayal again and again.

From the border, the ruin across the frontier is visible and emotional. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the moral carte blanche that various individuals seem to grant to the organizations makes me despair.