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It unfolded that morning that seemed perfectly normal. I journeyed together with my loved ones to pick up a new puppy. Everything seemed secure – then it all shifted.

Checking my device, I discovered news concerning the frontier. I dialed my parent, expecting her cheerful voice telling me everything was fine. Nothing. My father didn't respond either. Then, I reached my brother – his speech already told me the devastating news even as he explained.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've seen countless individuals in media reports whose worlds were torn apart. Their eyes revealing they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of violence were overwhelming, and the debris was still swirling.

My child glanced toward me from his screen. I relocated to contact people separately. By the time we reached our destination, I encountered the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the militants who captured her home.

I thought to myself: "Not one of our loved ones will survive."

At some point, I viewed videos depicting flames bursting through our residence. Even then, in the following days, I denied the house was destroyed – before my siblings shared with me visual confirmation.

The Consequences

When we reached the station, I called the dog breeder. "Hostilities has erupted," I explained. "My parents are probably dead. Our kibbutz fell to by attackers."

The return trip consisted of attempting to reach friends and family and at the same time shielding my child from the horrific images that circulated everywhere.

The scenes during those hours transcended anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by several attackers. My former educator transported to the territory on a golf cart.

Individuals circulated digital recordings appearing unbelievable. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured to Gaza. A young mother with her two small sons – children I had played with – seized by attackers, the fear in her eyes devastating.

The Agonizing Delay

It appeared to take forever for assistance to reach our community. Then began the painful anticipation for updates. As time passed, one photograph circulated of survivors. My family weren't there.

During the following period, as friends assisted investigators document losses, we combed online platforms for signs of those missing. We encountered torture and mutilation. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the situation grew more distinct. My aged family – along with numerous community members – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my other parent was elderly. During the violence, a quarter of our neighbors were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my parent emerged from confinement. Prior to leaving, she turned and offered a handshake of her captor. "Peace," she said. That moment – an elemental act of humanity within unimaginable horror – was broadcast globally.

Five hundred and two days afterward, Dad's body were recovered. He was murdered only kilometers from our home.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and their documentation still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has compounded the primary pain.

My family had always been peace activists. My mother still is, like most of my family. We know that hate and revenge don't offer the slightest solace from this tragedy.

I write this while crying. As time passes, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, not easier. The young ones belonging to companions remain hostages along with the pressure of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I describe focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We typically telling our experience to advocate for freedom, despite sorrow feels like privilege we don't have – and two years later, our campaign endures.

No part of this story is intended as justification for war. I have consistently opposed this conflict from the beginning. The residents in the territory have suffered terribly.

I'm shocked by political choices, yet emphasizing that the attackers are not innocent activists. Since I witnessed their atrocities during those hours. They abandoned their own people – causing suffering for everyone through their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying what happened appears as dishonoring the lost. My community here faces rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought versus leadership consistently and been betrayed repeatedly.

From the border, the destruction across the frontier is visible and painful. It horrifies me. At the same time, the complete justification that many seem willing to provide to the attackers causes hopelessness.