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It started during that morning looking completely ordinary. I journeyed accompanied by my family to pick up our new dog. Everything seemed predictable – before everything changed.

Checking my device, I noticed reports from the border. I tried reaching my mum, anticipating her calm response saying she was safe. Silence. My parent was also silent. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his voice immediately revealed the terrible truth before he explained.

The Developing Tragedy

I've witnessed countless individuals in media reports whose worlds were destroyed. Their eyes revealing they didn't understand what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of horror were overwhelming, and the debris remained chaotic.

My child watched me from his screen. I moved to make calls separately. Once we reached the station, I encountered the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the militants who captured her residence.

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

Later, I viewed videos showing fire consuming our residence. Despite this, in the following days, I refused to accept the building was gone – not until my family provided visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Getting to our destination, I contacted the dog breeder. "A war has started," I said. "My parents are likely gone. My community was captured by attackers."

The ride back consisted of attempting to reach friends and family and at the same time protecting my son from the awful footage that spread across platforms.

The images during those hours were beyond any possible expectation. A child from our community seized by armed militants. My former educator transported to the territory in a vehicle.

People shared digital recordings that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted into the territory. A young mother with her two small sons – boys I knew well – being rounded up by attackers, the terror visible on her face stunning.

The Painful Period

It appeared endless for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then started the terrible uncertainty for updates. Later that afternoon, a single image emerged depicting escapees. My family weren't there.

Over many days, as community members worked with authorities document losses, we searched the internet for evidence of those missing. We encountered atrocities and horrors. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no clue regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Over time, the reality emerged more fully. My elderly parents – together with numerous community members – were abducted from the community. My father was 83, my mother 85. During the violence, a quarter of our community members were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mother emerged from captivity. Before departing, she turned and offered a handshake of her captor. "Hello," she spoke. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity amid unimaginable horror – was broadcast everywhere.

Over 500 days following, my father's remains were returned. He died a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These events and the visual proof remain with me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign to save hostages, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has compounded the primary pain.

My mother and father had always been advocates for peace. My mother still is, like other loved ones. We recognize that animosity and retaliation cannot bring any comfort from the pain.

I write this while crying. Over the months, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, rather than simpler. The kids of my friends are still captive along with the pressure of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I describe dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We typically discussing events to fight for freedom, despite sorrow feels like privilege we cannot afford – and two years later, our work persists.

No part of this story serves as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed hostilities from the beginning. The residents across the border endured tragedy unimaginably.

I'm shocked by political choices, while maintaining that the organization cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed what they did that day. They failed the population – causing suffering for everyone through their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story with people supporting the violence seems like dishonoring the lost. My local circle experiences rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought with the authorities consistently facing repeated disappointment again and again.

From the border, the devastation of the territory can be seen and painful. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that numerous people seem to grant to the attackers creates discouragement.