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It started on a morning looking entirely routine. I journeyed accompanied by my family to collect a new puppy. Everything seemed predictable – until everything changed.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed reports from the border. I called my mother, expecting her cheerful voice telling me everything was fine. Silence. My father couldn't be reached. Afterward, I reached my brother – his tone instantly communicated the devastating news before he said anything.

The Unfolding Tragedy

I've witnessed numerous faces in media reports whose existence were torn apart. Their eyes showing they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The torrent of violence were rising, with the wreckage was still swirling.

My young one watched me across the seat. I relocated to reach out in private. Once we reached the station, I would witness the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the militants who seized her home.

I remember thinking: "None of our friends will survive."

Eventually, I viewed videos revealing blazes erupting from our residence. Even then, for days afterward, I denied the building was gone – not until my siblings shared with me images and proof.

The Aftermath

When we reached our destination, I contacted the dog breeder. "Hostilities has begun," I told them. "My mother and father are likely gone. My community has been taken over by attackers."

The return trip was spent searching for friends and family while also guarding my young one from the horrific images that spread across platforms.

The footage during those hours exceeded anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by armed militants. My mathematics teacher driven toward Gaza using transportation.

Friends sent digital recordings appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted into the territory. My friend's daughter and her little boys – children I had played with – captured by armed terrorists, the terror apparent in her expression stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt interminable for help to arrive our community. Then started the agonizing wait for updates. As time passed, a single image emerged depicting escapees. My mother and father weren't there.

For days and weeks, as community members assisted investigators locate the missing, we scoured digital spaces for evidence of our loved ones. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no clue about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the situation became clearer. My elderly parents – as well as dozens more – were taken hostage from their home. My father was 83, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, 25 percent of our community members were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum was released from captivity. Before departing, she looked back and shook hands of her captor. "Shalom," she uttered. That moment – a simple human connection during indescribable tragedy – was shared globally.

More than sixteen months afterward, Dad's body were returned. He was killed only kilometers from our home.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the visual proof remain with me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has worsened the primary pain.

My family remained campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, similar to many relatives. We know that hostility and vengeance won't provide any comfort from the pain.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. As time passes, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, not easier. The children belonging to companions remain hostages and the weight of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I describe dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We typically telling our experience to campaign for freedom, despite sorrow seems unaffordable we lack – after 24 months, our campaign persists.

Not one word of this story is intended as support for conflict. I continuously rejected this conflict from the beginning. The people across the border endured tragedy unimaginably.

I'm shocked by political choices, yet emphasizing that the attackers cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed what they did on October 7th. They betrayed the community – creating pain for all due to their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story among individuals justifying the attackers' actions appears as failing the deceased. My community here faces growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled versus leadership throughout this period while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

From the border, the ruin in Gaza is visible and visceral. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that various individuals seem to grant to militant groups makes me despair.