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It began during that morning that seemed entirely routine. I was traveling together with my loved ones to pick up a furry companion. Everything seemed secure – before everything changed.

Glancing at my screen, I saw reports about the border region. I called my parent, anticipating her cheerful voice telling me everything was fine. No answer. My father couldn't be reached. Afterward, I reached my brother – his speech already told me the terrible truth prior to he said anything.

The Developing Horror

I've witnessed so many people in media reports whose lives had collapsed. Their gaze revealing they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of tragedy were rising, and the debris hadn't settled.

My child watched me across the seat. I moved to contact people separately. When we got to the station, I saw the horrific murder of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the terrorists who captured her residence.

I recall believing: "Not one of our friends could live through this."

At some point, I saw footage showing fire erupting from our house. Despite this, in the following days, I denied the house was destroyed – before my family sent me photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at our destination, I contacted the dog breeder. "Hostilities has started," I told them. "My mother and father are likely gone. Our kibbutz has been taken over by terrorists."

The ride back consisted of attempting to reach community members while simultaneously shielding my child from the horrific images that spread through networks.

The scenes from that day exceeded all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son seized by several attackers. Someone who taught me driven toward Gaza in a vehicle.

Friends sent digital recordings that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion likewise abducted into the territory. A young mother and her little boys – kids I recently saw – seized by attackers, the fear apparent in her expression devastating.

The Painful Period

It seemed to take forever for assistance to reach the area. Then commenced the agonizing wait for updates. In the evening, one photograph appeared depicting escapees. My mother and father weren't there.

For days and weeks, as community members helped forensic teams identify victims, we scoured digital spaces for evidence of family members. We saw torture and mutilation. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no clue regarding his experience.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the circumstances grew more distinct. My elderly parents – as well as dozens more – were taken hostage from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. During the violence, one in four of our neighbors were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother was released from captivity. Before departing, she turned and grasped the hand of her captor. "Shalom," she uttered. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity amid unspeakable violence – was broadcast everywhere.

Five hundred and two days afterward, my father's remains were returned. He was murdered just two miles from our home.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the recorded evidence remain with me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the ongoing war, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the original wound.

My mother and father were lifelong advocates for peace. Mom continues, like other loved ones. We know that animosity and retaliation cannot bring the slightest solace from our suffering.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. With each day, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The children belonging to companions are still captive with the burden of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I call focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed telling our experience to advocate for the captives, while mourning seems unaffordable we don't have – after 24 months, our campaign endures.

No part of this account represents support for conflict. I have consistently opposed hostilities from the beginning. The population of Gaza endured tragedy unimaginably.

I'm shocked by government decisions, but I also insist that the attackers are not peaceful protesters. Because I know their atrocities on October 7th. They failed the population – causing tragedy on both sides due to their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience with those who defend the attackers' actions appears as dishonoring the lost. My community here faces growing prejudice, and our people back home has campaigned versus leadership throughout this period while experiencing betrayal again and again.

Across the fields, the ruin across the frontier can be seen and visceral. It appalls me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that various individuals seem to grant to militant groups causes hopelessness.