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It started during that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I rode together with my loved ones to pick up our new dog. The world appeared steady – until it all shifted.

Checking my device, I saw news from the border. I called my mum, anticipating her reassuring tone saying she was safe. Nothing. My father was also silent. Next, my sibling picked up – his tone already told me the devastating news before he explained.

The Developing Nightmare

I've observed numerous faces in media reports whose lives had collapsed. Their expressions demonstrating they didn't understand what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The torrent of horror were overwhelming, with the wreckage remained chaotic.

My young one looked at me across the seat. I shifted to contact people in private. Once we arrived the station, I encountered the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the attackers who seized her house.

I remember thinking: "Not a single of our friends will survive."

At some point, I viewed videos revealing blazes erupting from our house. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – before my family shared with me images and proof.

The Aftermath

Getting to our destination, I contacted the dog breeder. "A war has started," I explained. "My mother and father are likely gone. Our neighborhood has been taken over by attackers."

The ride back was spent searching for friends and family while simultaneously protecting my son from the horrific images that were emerging across platforms.

The images of that day were beyond anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son captured by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me driven toward the territory using transportation.

People shared Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. A senior community member similarly captured across the border. A woman I knew and her little boys – kids I recently saw – seized by attackers, the horror visible on her face paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It felt endless for assistance to reach our community. Then began the painful anticipation for news. Later that afternoon, a lone picture circulated depicting escapees. My family weren't there.

Over many days, as community members worked with authorities locate the missing, we scoured online platforms for evidence of our loved ones. We witnessed brutality and violence. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no indication about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Eventually, the circumstances became clearer. My senior mother and father – as well as dozens more – became captives from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, 25 percent of our neighbors were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my parent emerged from imprisonment. As she left, she looked back and offered a handshake of her captor. "Shalom," she spoke. That moment – an elemental act of humanity within unspeakable violence – was transmitted worldwide.

More than sixteen months afterward, Dad's body were recovered. He was murdered only kilometers from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These events and their documentation still terrorize me. The two years since – our desperate campaign to save hostages, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has intensified the initial trauma.

My family remained peace activists. My parent remains, as are most of my family. We know that hate and revenge don't offer the slightest solace from our suffering.

I share these thoughts through tears. Over the months, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, rather than simpler. The children belonging to companions are still captive and the weight of the aftermath feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I describe remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We're used to discussing events to advocate for hostage release, though grieving remains a luxury we cannot afford – after 24 months, our campaign endures.

No part of this story represents endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed hostilities since it started. The population across the border endured tragedy unimaginably.

I'm appalled by government decisions, but I also insist that the militants are not innocent activists. Because I know their actions during those hours. They abandoned the population – ensuring pain for all because of their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience with people supporting what happened seems like failing the deceased. My local circle confronts rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled against its government for two years facing repeated disappointment multiple times.

Across the fields, the devastation across the frontier is visible and visceral. It appalls me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that numerous people seem willing to provide to the organizations creates discouragement.