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It started on a morning that seemed completely ordinary. I rode accompanied by my family to pick up a furry companion. Life felt secure – then reality shattered.

Checking my device, I noticed reports from the border. I tried reaching my parent, expecting her calm response telling me they were secure. No answer. My dad was also silent. Afterward, my brother answered – his tone instantly communicated the awful reality before he spoke.

The Developing Tragedy

I've seen numerous faces on television whose worlds had collapsed. Their eyes showing they didn't understand what they'd lost. Now it was me. The deluge of violence were overwhelming, with the wreckage was still swirling.

My young one watched me over his laptop. I relocated to contact people separately. By the time we arrived our destination, I would witness the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the militants who captured her house.

I recall believing: "Not a single of our loved ones would make it."

Eventually, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes consuming our house. Nonetheless, in the following days, I denied the building was gone – until my family provided images and proof.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at the station, I contacted the kennel owner. "Conflict has started," I said. "My mother and father are probably dead. My community has been taken over by attackers."

The journey home was spent searching for friends and family while simultaneously shielding my child from the terrible visuals that spread through networks.

The images from that day transcended anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son taken by armed militants. My mathematics teacher driven toward Gaza using transportation.

People shared digital recordings appearing unbelievable. A senior community member similarly captured to Gaza. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – boys I knew well – being rounded up by militants, the horror apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It felt interminable for the military to come the area. Then commenced the painful anticipation for news. Later that afternoon, one photograph emerged showing those who made it. My family weren't there.

For days and weeks, as community members worked with authorities document losses, we scoured digital spaces for evidence of family members. We saw brutality and violence. We never found recordings showing my parent – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the circumstances grew more distinct. My aged family – along with numerous community members – were taken hostage from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. In the chaos, a quarter of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

Seventeen days later, my mum left captivity. Before departing, she looked back and offered a handshake of the guard. "Peace," she spoke. That gesture – a basic human interaction amid unimaginable horror – was broadcast everywhere.

Over 500 days following, my parent's physical presence were recovered. He was murdered only kilometers from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and their documentation continue to haunt me. The two years since – our determined activism to save hostages, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the original wound.

Both my parents were lifelong peace activists. My parent remains, as are other loved ones. We know that hostility and vengeance don't offer the slightest solace from our suffering.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. As time passes, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, rather than simpler. The kids from my community continue imprisoned with the burden of what followed is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I call dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We typically discussing events to campaign for freedom, while mourning remains a luxury we cannot afford – after 24 months, our efforts persists.

Nothing of this story represents support for conflict. I have consistently opposed hostilities since it started. The people in the territory have suffered unimaginably.

I'm shocked by political choices, yet emphasizing that the organization are not innocent activists. Because I know what they did on October 7th. They abandoned the community – creating tragedy on both sides through their violent beliefs.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story with people supporting what happened feels like betraying my dead. The people around me faces unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought with the authorities consistently facing repeated disappointment again and again.

From the border, the ruin of the territory can be seen and visceral. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that various individuals seem to grant to militant groups creates discouragement.