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It started on a morning looking completely ordinary. I journeyed accompanied by my family to welcome a furry companion. Everything seemed steady – then everything changed.

Opening my phone, I noticed news from the border. I dialed my parent, expecting her reassuring tone explaining everything was fine. Silence. My parent didn't respond either. Next, I reached my brother – his speech immediately revealed the terrible truth even as he explained.

The Developing Tragedy

I've observed countless individuals through news coverage whose lives were destroyed. Their eyes showing they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Now it was me. The torrent of violence were rising, amid the destruction was still swirling.

My young one watched me from his screen. I shifted to reach out alone. When we reached the city, I would witness the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – shown in real-time by the attackers who took over her home.

I thought to myself: "None of our loved ones could live through this."

Later, I witnessed recordings showing fire erupting from our family home. Even then, later on, I refused to accept the house was destroyed – until my siblings shared with me images and proof.

The Aftermath

Getting to the city, I phoned the kennel owner. "Conflict has erupted," I told them. "My parents may not survive. Our kibbutz fell to by militants."

The return trip involved searching for community members while also guarding my young one from the awful footage that spread through networks.

The images of that day transcended all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me driven toward Gaza in a vehicle.

Friends sent social media clips appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend also taken into the territory. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – children I had played with – seized by militants, the horror apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt endless for the military to come the area. Then commenced the painful anticipation for news. Later that afternoon, one photograph circulated showing those who made it. My parents were not among them.

During the following period, while neighbors worked with authorities identify victims, we scoured digital spaces for signs of family members. We saw brutality and violence. There was no recordings showing my parent – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the situation became clearer. My elderly parents – together with 74 others – were taken hostage from the community. My father was 83, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, 25 percent of the residents were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my parent emerged from imprisonment. Before departing, she looked back and offered a handshake of her captor. "Shalom," she spoke. That moment – a basic human interaction amid unimaginable horror – was broadcast globally.

Over 500 days afterward, my father's remains were recovered. He was murdered just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the visual proof still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to save hostages, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has worsened the original wound.

My mother and father had always been advocates for peace. Mom continues, as are most of my family. We understand that animosity and retaliation won't provide even momentary relief from the pain.

I compose these words through tears. With each day, discussing these events grows harder, rather than simpler. The young ones from my community continue imprisoned along with the pressure of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I call remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed telling our experience to campaign for freedom, while mourning feels like privilege we don't have – now, our campaign persists.

No part of this narrative represents support for conflict. I've always been against this conflict since it started. The people across the border experienced pain terribly.

I'm shocked by government decisions, but I also insist that the militants cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Because I know their atrocities during those hours. They betrayed the population – causing pain for all because of their violent beliefs.

The Social Divide

Discussing my experience with those who defend the attackers' actions appears as failing the deceased. The people around me confronts growing prejudice, and our people back home has struggled against its government consistently and been betrayed again and again.

From the border, the devastation in Gaza appears clearly and visceral. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the moral carte blanche that various individuals appear to offer to militant groups causes hopelessness.