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It started during that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I was traveling together with my loved ones to collect a furry companion. Everything seemed steady – then everything changed.

Opening my phone, I discovered reports concerning the frontier. I dialed my mother, expecting her reassuring tone saying they were secure. Silence. My parent didn't respond either. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his speech immediately revealed the devastating news prior to he explained.

The Emerging Horror

I've seen numerous faces on television whose existence were destroyed. Their expressions demonstrating they didn't understand their loss. Now it was me. The torrent of tragedy were rising, and the debris remained chaotic.

My son glanced toward me from his screen. I moved to contact people separately. When we reached the city, I saw the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the terrorists who took over her house.

I recall believing: "Not a single of our loved ones will survive."

Eventually, I saw footage showing fire erupting from our family home. Even then, for days afterward, I denied the house was destroyed – until my brothers sent me images and proof.

The Fallout

When we reached the station, I phoned the dog breeder. "Conflict has started," I explained. "My parents are likely gone. Our neighborhood was captured by attackers."

The return trip consisted of trying to contact friends and family while also protecting my son from the awful footage that circulated through networks.

The images from that day exceeded any possible expectation. A child from our community seized by several attackers. My former educator transported to the territory on a golf cart.

Individuals circulated social media clips that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend also taken across the border. A woman I knew and her little boys – children I had played with – seized by attackers, the fear visible on her face stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It appeared endless for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then began the painful anticipation for news. As time passed, a lone picture emerged depicting escapees. My parents weren't there.

During the following period, while neighbors helped forensic teams document losses, we searched digital spaces for signs of those missing. We saw brutality and violence. We didn't discover footage of my father – no evidence about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Over time, the circumstances became clearer. My elderly parents – together with 74 others – were taken hostage from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. In the chaos, a quarter of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum was released from captivity. Before departing, she looked back and offered a handshake of the guard. "Hello," she spoke. That image – an elemental act of humanity during unimaginable horror – was transmitted worldwide.

More than sixteen months afterward, my father's remains came back. He died only kilometers from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign to save hostages, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has intensified the original wound.

My family had always been advocates for peace. My parent remains, as are most of my family. We understand that hate and revenge won't provide any comfort from the pain.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. With each day, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, not easier. The young ones belonging to companions remain hostages with the burden of what followed remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I call remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We've become accustomed discussing events to advocate for hostage release, while mourning feels like privilege we lack – after 24 months, our campaign endures.

Nothing of this account represents support for conflict. I've always been against this conflict from the beginning. The people across the border endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I am horrified by leadership actions, while maintaining that the organization are not innocent activists. Since I witnessed their atrocities during those hours. They failed their own people – ensuring tragedy on both sides because of their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth among individuals justifying the attackers' actions feels like betraying my dead. The people around me confronts growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned against its government consistently while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

From the border, the destruction across the frontier can be seen and visceral. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that many seem willing to provide to the organizations causes hopelessness.