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It unfolded that morning looking entirely routine. I was traveling accompanied by my family to welcome a new puppy. Everything seemed steady – then reality shattered.

Checking my device, I discovered news from the border. I dialed my mother, hoping for her reassuring tone telling me they were secure. Silence. My dad was also silent. Next, I reached my brother – his voice already told me the terrible truth even as he spoke.

The Developing Horror

I've seen numerous faces on television whose lives were torn apart. Their expressions showing they didn't understand what they'd lost. Now it was me. The deluge of tragedy were overwhelming, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My son looked at me over his laptop. I relocated to reach out alone. By the time we got to the city, I encountered the terrible killing of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the terrorists who took over her house.

I remember thinking: "None of our loved ones would make it."

Eventually, I witnessed recordings showing fire bursting through our family home. Nonetheless, in the following days, I refused to accept the building was gone – until my family provided visual confirmation.

The Consequences

Getting to our destination, I called the puppy provider. "Hostilities has erupted," I said. "My family may not survive. My community was captured by terrorists."

The journey home was spent trying to contact community members while also guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that were emerging across platforms.

The images during those hours exceeded any possible expectation. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by armed militants. My former educator driven toward Gaza on a golf cart.

People shared Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend also taken to Gaza. A young mother and her little boys – boys I knew well – being rounded up by militants, the terror in her eyes paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It appeared interminable for the military to come the kibbutz. Then began the agonizing wait for updates. Later that afternoon, a lone picture emerged depicting escapees. My parents were missing.

For days and weeks, as community members assisted investigators locate the missing, we searched online platforms for evidence of our loved ones. We encountered torture and mutilation. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no clue regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the situation grew more distinct. My senior mother and father – as well as dozens more – were abducted from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. In the chaos, a quarter of the residents were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mother was released from confinement. As she left, she turned and grasped the hand of the guard. "Peace," she spoke. That gesture – a basic human interaction within unspeakable violence – was transmitted everywhere.

More than sixteen months afterward, my father's remains were recovered. He was killed a short distance from where we lived.

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and their documentation remain with me. Everything that followed – our determined activism for the captives, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the original wound.

My mother and father had always been peace activists. My parent remains, similar to other loved ones. We understand that animosity and retaliation cannot bring the slightest solace from our suffering.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. Over the months, sharing the experience grows harder, rather than simpler. The children from my community are still captive with the burden of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I describe focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We're used to telling our experience to fight for hostage release, though grieving feels like privilege we don't have – after 24 months, our campaign endures.

Nothing of this story serves as support for conflict. I've always been against this conflict from day one. The people in the territory have suffered unimaginably.

I'm shocked by political choices, but I also insist that the attackers are not innocent activists. Because I know their actions that day. They abandoned the population – causing suffering for everyone because of their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Discussing my experience with those who defend what happened seems like betraying my dead. The people around me experiences growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled versus leadership throughout this period and been betrayed multiple times.

Across the fields, the destruction of the territory can be seen and visceral. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that numerous people seem to grant to the organizations creates discouragement.