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It started that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I rode together with my loved ones to welcome a furry companion. Life felt steady – before it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered news from the border. I tried reaching my parent, anticipating her reassuring tone saying she was safe. Silence. My dad was also silent. Next, my sibling picked up – his voice already told me the awful reality before he spoke.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've seen numerous faces in media reports whose worlds were torn apart. Their eyes demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of horror were overwhelming, and the debris was still swirling.

My young one watched me across the seat. I relocated to reach out in private. Once we got to the station, I would witness the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the militants who captured her home.

I recall believing: "Not a single of our family will survive."

Later, I viewed videos revealing blazes bursting through our residence. Even then, in the following days, I denied the house was destroyed – until my family shared with me images and proof.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at the station, I phoned the kennel owner. "Hostilities has erupted," I explained. "My family are probably dead. Our neighborhood fell to by terrorists."

The ride back was spent trying to contact loved ones while simultaneously shielding my child from the horrific images that circulated across platforms.

The images of that day exceeded any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son seized by several attackers. Someone who taught me taken in the direction of the territory using transportation.

People shared digital recordings that seemed impossible. A senior community member similarly captured across the border. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – children I had played with – captured by attackers, the fear visible on her face stunning.

The Painful Period

It appeared interminable for help to arrive the area. Then started the agonizing wait for news. As time passed, one photograph appeared depicting escapees. My family were not among them.

During the following period, as community members worked with authorities locate the missing, we scoured digital spaces for evidence of family members. We witnessed torture and mutilation. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Over time, the situation became clearer. My aged family – as well as 74 others – became captives from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. In the chaos, a quarter of our community members were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my mum emerged from captivity. As she left, she glanced behind and shook hands of the militant. "Shalom," she spoke. That image – a simple human connection within unspeakable violence – was shared everywhere.

Five hundred and two days afterward, my father's remains were recovered. He was murdered just two miles from where we lived.

The Persistent Wound

These events and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the original wound.

My family were lifelong advocates for peace. My mother still is, as are other loved ones. We know that hate and revenge cannot bring any comfort from the pain.

I compose these words while crying. Over the months, talking about what happened grows harder, not easier. The kids belonging to companions continue imprisoned and the weight of the aftermath feels heavy.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I call remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We're used to discussing events to campaign for freedom, despite sorrow feels like privilege we don't have – after 24 months, our work continues.

Not one word of this account is intended as endorsement of violence. I've always been against this conflict from day one. The residents of Gaza endured tragedy unimaginably.

I'm appalled by leadership actions, but I also insist that the militants shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed what they did on October 7th. They abandoned the community – ensuring suffering for everyone through their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying the attackers' actions feels like failing the deceased. The people around me confronts growing prejudice, and our people back home has struggled with the authorities for two years facing repeated disappointment again and again.

Across the fields, the ruin across the frontier is visible and visceral. It horrifies me. At the same time, the complete justification that numerous people seem to grant to militant groups creates discouragement.