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It started that morning that seemed entirely routine. I rode accompanied by my family to welcome our new dog. Life felt steady – until reality shattered.

Checking my device, I saw news from the border. I tried reaching my mum, expecting her cheerful voice explaining she was safe. Nothing. My dad didn't respond either. Then, my brother answered – his tone already told me the awful reality even as he explained.

The Unfolding Tragedy

I've observed so many people through news coverage whose worlds were destroyed. Their expressions revealing they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Now it was me. The torrent of horror were overwhelming, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My young one watched me across the seat. I moved to contact people separately. By the time we reached the station, I encountered the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the militants who captured her home.

I remember thinking: "Not a single of our friends could live through this."

At some point, I witnessed recordings showing fire erupting from our house. Even then, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the home had burned – not until my siblings shared with me photographs and evidence.

The Fallout

When we reached our destination, I phoned the kennel owner. "A war has begun," I said. "My parents are probably dead. Our neighborhood has been taken over by terrorists."

The ride back consisted of searching for friends and family and at the same time guarding my young one from the awful footage that circulated through networks.

The footage during those hours exceeded anything we could imagine. A child from our community captured by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me driven toward the territory using transportation.

People shared digital recordings appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured to Gaza. A woman I knew accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by militants, the fear apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It appeared endless for the military to come the kibbutz. Then began the painful anticipation for information. As time passed, one photograph circulated of survivors. My parents weren't there.

For days and weeks, as friends assisted investigators identify victims, we combed digital spaces for traces of those missing. We encountered atrocities and horrors. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the reality emerged more fully. My elderly parents – along with 74 others – became captives from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, a quarter of our community members were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my parent left imprisonment. As she left, she glanced behind and shook hands of the guard. "Shalom," she spoke. That gesture – a simple human connection amid unimaginable horror – was transmitted worldwide.

More than sixteen months following, my parent's physical presence were returned. He died only kilometers from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. The two years since – our determined activism to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has worsened the original wound.

My family remained peace activists. My parent remains, like many relatives. We know that animosity and retaliation cannot bring even momentary relief from our suffering.

I write this while crying. With each day, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The kids belonging to companions are still captive along with the pressure of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I term dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We typically sharing our story to fight for the captives, despite sorrow feels like privilege we cannot afford – now, our efforts persists.

Not one word of this account serves as justification for war. I've always been against this conflict since it started. The population of Gaza endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by leadership actions, while maintaining that the militants shouldn't be viewed as innocent activists. Since I witnessed their actions on October 7th. They failed their own people – creating pain for all because of their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story with people supporting the attackers' actions seems like betraying my dead. The people around me experiences unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought with the authorities consistently and been betrayed multiple times.

Looking over, the destruction in Gaza is visible and emotional. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that numerous people seem willing to provide to the attackers creates discouragement.