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It started on a morning that seemed completely ordinary. I journeyed accompanied by my family to welcome a furry companion. Everything seemed steady – before everything changed.

Opening my phone, I discovered reports from the border. I tried reaching my mother, hoping for her cheerful voice telling me they were secure. Silence. My father couldn't be reached. Next, my sibling picked up – his speech already told me the terrible truth even as he explained.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've seen countless individuals in media reports whose worlds were destroyed. Their gaze showing they didn't understand their loss. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of violence were rising, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My young one looked at me from his screen. I shifted to contact people separately. By the time we got to the city, I saw the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the militants who seized her home.

I thought to myself: "Not a single of our family will survive."

Later, I viewed videos showing fire consuming our house. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – before my family sent me visual confirmation.

The Consequences

Upon arriving at the city, I called the dog breeder. "Hostilities has started," I said. "My parents are likely gone. Our kibbutz has been taken over by terrorists."

The return trip involved trying to contact loved ones while simultaneously protecting my son from the awful footage that spread across platforms.

The images during those hours transcended all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me driven toward Gaza on a golf cart.

Friends sent digital recordings that seemed impossible. A senior community member likewise abducted to Gaza. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by attackers, the fear visible on her face stunning.

The Long Wait

It seemed to take forever for help to arrive the area. Then began the terrible uncertainty for information. In the evening, one photograph emerged of survivors. My parents were missing.

For days and weeks, as friends assisted investigators identify victims, we scoured the internet for signs of family members. We saw brutality and violence. There was no footage of my father – no evidence about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Eventually, the circumstances emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – along with numerous community members – were taken hostage from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, 25 percent of our community members were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent emerged from captivity. As she left, she looked back and offered a handshake of her captor. "Shalom," she said. That image – an elemental act of humanity within unspeakable violence – was shared globally.

Five hundred and two days afterward, my father's remains came back. He died only kilometers from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These experiences and their documentation remain with me. Everything that followed – our determined activism for the captives, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the primary pain.

Both my parents had always been advocates for peace. Mom continues, as are most of my family. We recognize that hostility and vengeance won't provide even momentary relief from the pain.

I write this while crying. As time passes, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The children from my community continue imprisoned and the weight of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I describe dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We typically sharing our story to advocate for the captives, though grieving feels like privilege we don't have – and two years later, our work persists.

No part of this narrative represents support for conflict. I've always been against this conflict from day one. The people across the border experienced pain beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by leadership actions, while maintaining that the organization shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Because I know their actions that day. They failed the community – creating suffering for everyone due to their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth with people supporting what happened appears as dishonoring the lost. The people around me confronts growing prejudice, while my community there has campaigned against its government for two years while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

From the border, the destruction of the territory is visible and emotional. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the moral carte blanche that numerous people seem willing to provide to militant groups makes me despair.