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It began that morning looking completely ordinary. I was traveling together with my loved ones to pick up our new dog. The world appeared steady – before everything changed.

Checking my device, I noticed news concerning the frontier. I called my mother, hoping for her calm response telling me she was safe. No answer. My dad didn't respond either. Next, my sibling picked up – his speech immediately revealed the awful reality prior to he explained.

The Developing Nightmare

I've witnessed countless individuals in media reports whose existence had collapsed. Their gaze showing they didn't understand their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The torrent of horror were building, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My young one looked at me from his screen. I relocated to make calls separately. By the time we arrived our destination, I would witness the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the militants who took over her house.

I thought to myself: "Not one of our loved ones could live through this."

Eventually, I saw footage showing fire bursting through our residence. Nonetheless, in the following days, I refused to accept the home had burned – before my brothers sent me images and proof.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at the city, I called the kennel owner. "A war has started," I told them. "My family are probably dead. My community was captured by terrorists."

The ride back consisted of searching for loved ones and at the same time guarding my young one from the horrific images that circulated everywhere.

The images from that day transcended anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son taken by armed militants. My mathematics teacher transported to the border on a golf cart.

Individuals circulated digital recordings that seemed impossible. A senior community member also taken across the border. A woman I knew accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – captured by militants, the terror visible on her face devastating.

The Painful Period

It appeared endless for assistance to reach the area. Then commenced the agonizing wait for information. Later that afternoon, a single image emerged of survivors. My mother and father were missing.

During the following period, as community members assisted investigators identify victims, we combed online platforms for signs of those missing. We witnessed brutality and violence. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no indication regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the circumstances became clearer. My senior mother and father – as well as dozens more – were abducted from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. During the violence, one in four of our community members were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum left captivity. As she left, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of her captor. "Shalom," she uttered. That image – a simple human connection during indescribable tragedy – was transmitted everywhere.

More than sixteen months afterward, my father's remains were recovered. He was murdered a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our determined activism for the captives, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has compounded the original wound.

Both my parents had always been advocates for peace. My mother still is, like other loved ones. We understand that hate and revenge don't offer any comfort from our suffering.

I compose these words through tears. With each day, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The kids belonging to companions are still captive and the weight of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I term remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We're used to sharing our story to fight for freedom, despite sorrow seems unaffordable we lack – now, our campaign continues.

Nothing of this narrative represents support for conflict. I have consistently opposed hostilities since it started. The population in the territory endured tragedy unimaginably.

I'm shocked by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the attackers shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed their atrocities on October 7th. They failed their own people – ensuring pain for all because of their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story with those who defend the violence feels like failing the deceased. The people around me faces rising hostility, while my community there has struggled with the authorities throughout this period facing repeated disappointment multiple times.

Across the fields, the ruin of the territory is visible and painful. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that many appear to offer to militant groups creates discouragement.