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It unfolded that morning that seemed perfectly normal. I was traveling accompanied by my family to collect a new puppy. The world appeared predictable – until everything changed.

Checking my device, I discovered updates about the border region. I tried reaching my mother, hoping for her cheerful voice explaining they were secure. No answer. My father didn't respond either. Afterward, I reached my brother – his speech already told me the devastating news even as he said anything.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've witnessed countless individuals on television whose lives were destroyed. Their expressions demonstrating they didn't understand their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The deluge of horror were overwhelming, and the debris remained chaotic.

My child glanced toward me over his laptop. I shifted to make calls in private. By the time we got to our destination, I would witness the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the militants who captured her home.

I thought to myself: "Not one of our friends would make it."

Eventually, I viewed videos depicting flames consuming our house. Despite this, in the following days, I denied the home had burned – until my siblings sent me visual confirmation.

The Consequences

When we reached the station, I contacted the kennel owner. "A war has begun," I explained. "My family may not survive. Our kibbutz fell to by militants."

The return trip consisted of trying to contact community members and at the same time shielding my child from the horrific images that were emerging across platforms.

The images from that day were beyond all comprehension. A child from our community taken by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me driven toward the border in a vehicle.

Friends sent social media clips that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend also taken to Gaza. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – captured by militants, the horror in her eyes devastating.

The Long Wait

It felt endless for help to arrive the area. Then began the terrible uncertainty for information. As time passed, a lone picture appeared of survivors. My mother and father were missing.

Over many days, as community members worked with authorities document losses, we scoured digital spaces for signs of family members. We witnessed torture and mutilation. We never found recordings showing my parent – no indication about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Over time, the reality emerged more fully. My elderly parents – as well as numerous community members – were abducted from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, my mother 85. In the chaos, one in four of our community members were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my parent emerged from captivity. Before departing, she looked back and shook hands of the militant. "Shalom," she said. That image – a basic human interaction within unspeakable violence – was broadcast globally.

More than sixteen months later, Dad's body were recovered. He died just two miles from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These events and their documentation still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign for the captives, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the primary pain.

My mother and father were lifelong peace activists. My parent remains, like other loved ones. We know that hate and revenge don't offer the slightest solace from this tragedy.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. Over the months, talking about what happened grows harder, rather than simpler. The young ones belonging to companions continue imprisoned and the weight of what followed feels heavy.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I call remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We're used to telling our experience to advocate for hostage release, while mourning remains a luxury we don't have – now, our efforts continues.

Not one word of this story serves as support for conflict. I have consistently opposed this conflict since it started. The population in the territory endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I'm shocked by government decisions, but I also insist that the organization shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Because I know their actions on October 7th. They abandoned their own people – ensuring tragedy on both sides through their violent beliefs.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth with those who defend what happened feels like dishonoring the lost. My community here experiences rising hostility, while my community there has campaigned versus leadership for two years facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

From the border, the ruin across the frontier appears clearly and painful. It shocks me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that many appear to offer to the attackers creates discouragement.