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It unfolded that morning appearing perfectly normal. I was traveling together with my loved ones to collect a new puppy. Everything seemed predictable – until it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I noticed updates concerning the frontier. I dialed my mum, anticipating her calm response explaining they were secure. Nothing. My father was also silent. Afterward, my brother answered – his speech already told me the devastating news before he said anything.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've witnessed countless individuals in media reports whose lives were torn apart. Their eyes demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The deluge of horror were overwhelming, and the debris hadn't settled.

My child looked at me across the seat. I moved to reach out alone. When we got to the station, I would witness the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the militants who seized her home.

I recall believing: "Not one of our loved ones could live through this."

At some point, I saw footage showing fire consuming our family home. Even then, later on, I denied the home had burned – until my brothers sent me photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

Getting to our destination, I contacted the puppy provider. "Conflict has begun," I said. "My mother and father may not survive. Our kibbutz was captured by attackers."

The journey home consisted of attempting to reach friends and family while also shielding my child from the horrific images that circulated through networks.

The footage during those hours were beyond anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by armed militants. My former educator transported to the border using transportation.

Friends sent Telegram videos that seemed impossible. A senior community member similarly captured across the border. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – seized by militants, the horror in her eyes paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It seemed to take forever for the military to come the area. Then started the terrible uncertainty for news. Later that afternoon, a lone picture emerged of survivors. My mother and father were missing.

Over many days, as friends assisted investigators document losses, we scoured digital spaces for evidence of our loved ones. We encountered torture and mutilation. There was no recordings showing my parent – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the situation became clearer. My aged family – together with 74 others – were taken hostage from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, one in four of our neighbors were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my parent left captivity. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and shook hands of the militant. "Shalom," she said. That image – a simple human connection during indescribable tragedy – was transmitted everywhere.

More than sixteen months afterward, Dad's body came back. He was murdered just two miles from where we lived.

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the ongoing war, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the initial trauma.

My mother and father were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, like most of my family. We recognize that hostility and vengeance cannot bring even momentary relief from our suffering.

I compose these words amid sorrow. With each day, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The kids of my friends are still captive and the weight of the aftermath feels heavy.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I call dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We're used to telling our experience to advocate for freedom, while mourning remains a luxury we lack – now, our work persists.

Nothing of this account serves as justification for war. I continuously rejected the fighting from day one. The residents in the territory endured tragedy terribly.

I'm appalled by political choices, but I also insist that the attackers cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Because I know their actions during those hours. They betrayed their own people – creating suffering for everyone due to their violent beliefs.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth with people supporting the violence seems like failing the deceased. My community here faces growing prejudice, while my community there has struggled with the authorities throughout this period facing repeated disappointment again and again.

Across the fields, the destruction of the territory appears clearly and visceral. It shocks me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that many seem to grant to the attackers causes hopelessness.