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It unfolded that morning looking completely ordinary. I rode together with my loved ones to pick up a new puppy. Life felt steady – before everything changed.

Checking my device, I discovered updates concerning the frontier. I called my mother, anticipating her reassuring tone explaining she was safe. No answer. My dad couldn't be reached. Next, I reached my brother – his speech immediately revealed the terrible truth prior to he explained.

The Unfolding Horror

I've witnessed numerous faces through news coverage whose existence had collapsed. Their eyes showing they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The deluge of tragedy were building, and the debris hadn't settled.

My son looked at me over his laptop. I relocated to reach out separately. When we arrived the station, I encountered the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the militants who took over her house.

I remember thinking: "Not one of our family will survive."

Eventually, I witnessed recordings depicting flames consuming our house. Nonetheless, later on, I refused to accept the home had burned – before my brothers sent me images and proof.

The Fallout

When we reached our destination, I called the puppy provider. "A war has started," I said. "My mother and father may not survive. My community has been taken over by terrorists."

The return trip was spent attempting to reach community members while simultaneously guarding my young one from the horrific images that spread through networks.

The footage during those hours transcended anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by several attackers. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of the territory using transportation.

Individuals circulated digital recordings that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend also taken to Gaza. A young mother accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by militants, the terror apparent in her expression stunning.

The Painful Period

It felt interminable for help to arrive the area. Then started the terrible uncertainty for information. As time passed, a lone picture appeared showing those who made it. My parents were missing.

For days and weeks, while neighbors assisted investigators document losses, we combed online platforms for evidence of our loved ones. We witnessed torture and mutilation. There was no footage of my father – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Emerging Picture

Over time, the situation became clearer. My senior mother and father – together with dozens more – were abducted from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, my other parent was elderly. During the violence, a quarter of the residents were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum emerged from confinement. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and shook hands of her captor. "Peace," she said. That moment – an elemental act of humanity during unspeakable violence – was broadcast globally.

More than sixteen months afterward, Dad's body were recovered. He was killed only kilometers from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and the visual proof continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts to save hostages, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the original wound.

My mother and father had always been campaigners for reconciliation. My parent remains, similar to other loved ones. We know that animosity and retaliation cannot bring any comfort from our suffering.

I write this amid sorrow. With each day, discussing these events becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The kids from my community remain hostages along with the pressure of subsequent events is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I term remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We're used to sharing our story to advocate for freedom, despite sorrow remains a luxury we don't have – and two years later, our campaign persists.

No part of this narrative represents endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected the fighting since it started. The population in the territory experienced pain terribly.

I'm appalled by political choices, but I also insist that the organization are not peaceful protesters. Because I know their atrocities on October 7th. They failed their own people – creating suffering for everyone because of their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience with people supporting what happened seems like failing the deceased. My community here experiences unprecedented antisemitism, while my community there has fought against its government throughout this period and been betrayed multiple times.

From the border, the destruction in Gaza appears clearly and emotional. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that various individuals seem to grant to militant groups makes me despair.