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It started that morning appearing perfectly normal. I was traveling together with my loved ones to collect our new dog. Everything seemed steady – until it all shifted.

Checking my device, I noticed news from the border. I dialed my mother, hoping for her reassuring tone saying they were secure. Nothing. My father was also silent. Then, my sibling picked up – his speech instantly communicated the devastating news prior to he spoke.

The Emerging Horror

I've observed numerous faces through news coverage whose worlds had collapsed. Their expressions revealing they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Now it was me. The torrent of tragedy were rising, and the debris hadn't settled.

My child watched me over his laptop. I relocated to reach out separately. By the time we reached our destination, I saw the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the terrorists who took over her house.

I remember thinking: "None of our family would make it."

Later, I viewed videos depicting flames bursting through our family home. Nonetheless, in the following days, I denied the building was gone – before my family shared with me visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at the station, I called the dog breeder. "Hostilities has started," I explained. "My parents are likely gone. Our neighborhood fell to by militants."

The ride back involved attempting to reach loved ones and at the same time guarding my young one from the horrific images that spread through networks.

The images from that day were beyond anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son captured by several attackers. My former educator transported to Gaza on a golf cart.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted to Gaza. A young mother with her two small sons – boys I knew well – being rounded up by militants, the fear apparent in her expression devastating.

The Painful Period

It appeared interminable for assistance to reach the area. Then started the terrible uncertainty for information. Later that afternoon, a single image emerged of survivors. My family were not among them.

For days and weeks, as community members helped forensic teams identify victims, we scoured online platforms for evidence of family members. We saw torture and mutilation. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no clue regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Over time, the situation became clearer. My elderly parents – as well as dozens more – were abducted from the community. My father was 83, my mother 85. During the violence, 25 percent of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

Seventeen days later, my mother left imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and shook hands of the militant. "Shalom," she spoke. That image – a simple human connection within unimaginable horror – was transmitted worldwide.

More than sixteen months following, my father's remains came back. He died a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the visual proof remain with me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the initial trauma.

My mother and father remained campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, similar to many relatives. We understand that hostility and vengeance won't provide any comfort from our suffering.

I share these thoughts while crying. With each day, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, not easier. The kids belonging to companions continue imprisoned and the weight of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I term remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We typically telling our experience to advocate for freedom, though grieving remains a luxury we cannot afford – now, our efforts endures.

No part of this story is intended as justification for war. I've always been against the fighting from the beginning. The population across the border endured tragedy unimaginably.

I'm shocked by government decisions, but I also insist that the attackers cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Because I know their actions that day. They abandoned the population – causing pain for all due to their deadly philosophy.

The Community Split

Telling my truth with people supporting the violence feels like betraying my dead. My community here confronts growing prejudice, and our people back home has fought against its government consistently facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

From the border, the devastation of the territory is visible and visceral. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that numerous people seem to grant to the organizations creates discouragement.