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It began during that morning that seemed perfectly normal. I journeyed accompanied by my family to welcome a furry companion. The world appeared steady – until it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I saw news about the border region. I called my mum, anticipating her calm response saying they were secure. Nothing. My parent didn't respond either. Next, I reached my brother – his speech already told me the terrible truth even as he explained.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've witnessed so many people on television whose lives had collapsed. Their gaze showing they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Now it was me. The deluge of tragedy were rising, amid the destruction was still swirling.

My child looked at me across the seat. I relocated to make calls in private. When we reached our destination, I saw the terrible killing of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the attackers who captured her house.

I remember thinking: "Not one of our loved ones would make it."

Later, I witnessed recordings showing fire bursting through our residence. Nonetheless, in the following days, I refused to accept the building was gone – until my family shared with me images and proof.

The Fallout

Getting to the station, I contacted the puppy provider. "Hostilities has begun," I said. "My mother and father are likely gone. Our kibbutz has been taken over by terrorists."

The journey home was spent trying to contact friends and family while also shielding my child from the horrific images that spread everywhere.

The images during those hours transcended anything we could imagine. A child from our community captured by several attackers. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of Gaza using transportation.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos that defied reality. A senior community member also taken to Gaza. A woman I knew with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the horror visible on her face stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It seemed endless for the military to come the kibbutz. Then started the painful anticipation for information. Later that afternoon, a lone picture emerged showing those who made it. My parents weren't there.

During the following period, as friends helped forensic teams document losses, we searched the internet for signs of our loved ones. We saw brutality and violence. We never found recordings showing my parent – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Over time, the situation emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – as well as 74 others – were abducted from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my mother 85. During the violence, one in four of our community members were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mother left captivity. Before departing, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of the militant. "Peace," she spoke. That gesture – a simple human connection within indescribable tragedy – was shared worldwide.

Over 500 days later, my father's remains were returned. He was killed only kilometers from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and the recorded evidence remain with me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts to save hostages, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the initial trauma.

My mother and father remained peace activists. My parent remains, as are other loved ones. We know that hate and revenge cannot bring any comfort from the pain.

I compose these words through tears. As time passes, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, not easier. The young ones belonging to companions are still captive and the weight of what followed is overwhelming.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I describe remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We typically discussing events to fight for hostage release, while mourning seems unaffordable we lack – now, our efforts continues.

No part of this narrative is intended as justification for war. I have consistently opposed hostilities from the beginning. The people of Gaza have suffered unimaginably.

I'm appalled by political choices, but I also insist that the militants cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Having seen their actions during those hours. They betrayed the population – causing tragedy on both sides through their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth with people supporting the attackers' actions seems like failing the deceased. My local circle faces rising hostility, while my community there has fought with the authorities for two years and been betrayed again and again.

Looking over, the destruction across the frontier can be seen and painful. It appalls me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that many seem to grant to the organizations creates discouragement.