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It unfolded that morning looking completely ordinary. I was traveling accompanied by my family to welcome a new puppy. Life felt steady – then reality shattered.

Checking my device, I discovered reports about the border region. I dialed my parent, expecting her reassuring tone saying they were secure. Nothing. My father couldn't be reached. Afterward, my brother answered – his speech instantly communicated the terrible truth before he spoke.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've seen countless individuals through news coverage whose worlds were destroyed. Their expressions demonstrating they didn't understand their loss. Now it was me. The floodwaters of tragedy were rising, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My son looked at me over his laptop. I moved to make calls alone. Once we arrived our destination, I encountered the terrible killing of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the terrorists who took over her house.

I recall believing: "Not one of our loved ones will survive."

At some point, I witnessed recordings showing fire erupting from our house. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I denied the home had burned – not until my brothers sent me photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

Getting to the station, I contacted the dog breeder. "Hostilities has erupted," I said. "My family may not survive. Our kibbutz was captured by attackers."

The journey home involved searching for community members while simultaneously shielding my child from the horrific images that spread through networks.

The footage from that day transcended all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me transported to the territory using transportation.

Friends sent digital recordings appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend also taken into the territory. A young mother and her little boys – children I had played with – seized by armed terrorists, the horror apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt to take forever for the military to come our community. Then started the painful anticipation for information. In the evening, one photograph appeared of survivors. My mother and father weren't there.

Over many days, as community members worked with authorities document losses, we scoured digital spaces for signs of those missing. We saw atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Over time, the situation grew more distinct. My elderly parents – together with dozens more – were abducted from their home. My father was 83, my mother 85. During the violence, a quarter of the residents were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my parent left confinement. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and shook hands of the militant. "Shalom," she spoke. That moment – a basic human interaction during unimaginable horror – was transmitted everywhere.

More than sixteen months following, Dad's body were returned. He died a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and their documentation still terrorize me. The two years since – our determined activism to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the initial trauma.

Both my parents remained advocates for peace. My mother still is, similar to most of my family. We recognize that animosity and retaliation cannot bring even momentary relief from the pain.

I compose these words through tears. Over the months, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, not easier. The children of my friends continue imprisoned and the weight of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I term remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed sharing our story to fight for freedom, while mourning feels like privilege we cannot afford – and two years later, our work persists.

Nothing of this account represents endorsement of violence. I've always been against hostilities from the beginning. The residents of Gaza experienced pain unimaginably.

I'm appalled by political choices, but I also insist that the organization cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Having seen what they did on October 7th. They betrayed the community – ensuring suffering for everyone through their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience with people supporting the attackers' actions feels like betraying my dead. My community here faces unprecedented antisemitism, while my community there has struggled versus leadership throughout this period while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

Looking over, the ruin across the frontier can be seen and painful. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that numerous people seem to grant to the attackers causes hopelessness.