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It began during that morning that seemed perfectly normal. I was traveling accompanied by my family to welcome a new puppy. Everything seemed predictable – before it all shifted.

Checking my device, I discovered news about the border region. I tried reaching my mum, expecting her cheerful voice saying everything was fine. Silence. My parent couldn't be reached. Next, I reached my brother – his tone already told me the terrible truth even as he said anything.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've observed countless individuals on television whose worlds were destroyed. Their eyes showing they didn't understand what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The torrent of horror were rising, and the debris hadn't settled.

My child glanced toward me across the seat. I relocated to contact people separately. Once we got to our destination, I would witness the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the terrorists who captured her home.

I remember thinking: "Not a single of our family will survive."

Eventually, I saw footage depicting flames consuming our residence. Despite this, later on, I denied the building was gone – before my brothers shared with me photographs and evidence.

The Consequences

Getting to our destination, I called the dog breeder. "A war has begun," I told them. "My family are likely gone. Our kibbutz fell to by terrorists."

The journey home was spent trying to contact friends and family and at the same time protecting my son from the terrible visuals that were emerging through networks.

The scenes of that day were beyond anything we could imagine. A child from our community captured by armed militants. My mathematics teacher driven toward Gaza in a vehicle.

Friends sent Telegram videos that seemed impossible. A senior community member also taken to Gaza. A woman I knew and her little boys – boys I knew well – captured by attackers, the terror in her eyes devastating.

The Painful Period

It seemed to take forever for help to arrive our community. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for information. As time passed, a single image appeared depicting escapees. My family were missing.

For days and weeks, as community members worked with authorities document losses, we scoured online platforms for evidence of those missing. We saw torture and mutilation. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the circumstances emerged more fully. My elderly parents – along with numerous community members – were taken hostage from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. Amid the terror, one in four of our neighbors were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my parent emerged from imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she looked back and offered a handshake of the militant. "Hello," she said. That moment – an elemental act of humanity amid unimaginable horror – was transmitted everywhere.

Five hundred and two days following, my father's remains were recovered. He was killed a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. The two years since – our desperate campaign to save hostages, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the original wound.

My family remained advocates for peace. My mother still is, as are other loved ones. We know that hostility and vengeance won't provide the slightest solace from our suffering.

I share these thoughts through tears. As time passes, discussing these events grows harder, not easier. The children of my friends are still captive along with the pressure of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I term remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We typically telling our experience to campaign for the captives, though grieving remains a luxury we cannot afford – now, our efforts endures.

No part of this narrative represents support for conflict. I have consistently opposed this conflict from the beginning. The residents in the territory endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by government decisions, while maintaining that the organization cannot be considered innocent activists. Because I know their actions on October 7th. They failed the population – creating pain for all due to their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth among individuals justifying the attackers' actions seems like betraying my dead. The people around me experiences rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought with the authorities for two years while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

From the border, the destruction of the territory can be seen and visceral. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that many seem willing to provide to the organizations causes hopelessness.