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It began during that morning appearing entirely routine. I journeyed together with my loved ones to collect our new dog. Life felt secure – until it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed updates from the border. I called my mother, expecting her cheerful voice telling me she was safe. No answer. My parent couldn't be reached. Afterward, my brother answered – his tone immediately revealed the devastating news even as he explained.

The Unfolding Tragedy

I've observed numerous faces in media reports whose existence were destroyed. Their expressions demonstrating they didn't understand their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The deluge of violence were rising, amid the destruction was still swirling.

My young one watched me across the seat. I relocated to contact people in private. Once we arrived the city, I saw the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the militants who seized her residence.

I remember thinking: "Not a single of our friends will survive."

Later, I saw footage revealing blazes consuming our house. Despite this, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the building was gone – not until my siblings shared with me photographs and evidence.

The Consequences

Getting to our destination, I called the dog breeder. "A war has erupted," I told them. "My parents are probably dead. My community fell to by terrorists."

The return trip consisted of trying to contact friends and family while simultaneously protecting my son from the terrible visuals that spread through networks.

The scenes from that day were beyond all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son captured by several attackers. My mathematics teacher driven toward the territory using transportation.

People shared digital recordings that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted into the territory. A young mother with her two small sons – children I had played with – seized by attackers, the fear visible on her face paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It seemed endless for help to arrive the area. Then began the terrible uncertainty for information. Later that afternoon, one photograph circulated depicting escapees. My family were not among them.

During the following period, as community members helped forensic teams document losses, we combed digital spaces for evidence of our loved ones. We witnessed torture and mutilation. We never found recordings showing my parent – no clue regarding his experience.

The Emerging Picture

Over time, the reality became clearer. My aged family – along with dozens more – were abducted from the community. My father was 83, my other parent was elderly. In the chaos, a quarter of our community members were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mother emerged from confinement. Before departing, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of the guard. "Peace," she spoke. That moment – an elemental act of humanity amid unimaginable horror – was broadcast everywhere.

More than sixteen months later, Dad's body were recovered. He died a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the visual proof still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts for the captives, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the original wound.

My family had always been advocates for peace. My parent remains, similar to many relatives. We recognize that animosity and retaliation won't provide the slightest solace from this tragedy.

I write this amid sorrow. As time passes, discussing these events becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The children from my community are still captive with the burden of subsequent events is overwhelming.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I term remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We typically discussing events to campaign for freedom, though grieving seems unaffordable we cannot afford – after 24 months, our campaign continues.

Not one word of this story is intended as support for conflict. I continuously rejected hostilities since it started. The population in the territory have suffered unimaginably.

I am horrified by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the organization cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Because I know their actions during those hours. They failed the community – creating tragedy on both sides through their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Sharing my story with people supporting the violence feels like failing the deceased. My local circle confronts rising hostility, and our people back home has fought against its government throughout this period and been betrayed repeatedly.

From the border, the devastation in Gaza appears clearly and painful. It horrifies me. At the same time, the complete justification that numerous people appear to offer to the attackers makes me despair.