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It unfolded that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I journeyed accompanied by my family to collect a new puppy. Life felt predictable – then everything changed.

Opening my phone, I noticed news about the border region. I tried reaching my mother, anticipating her calm response explaining everything was fine. No answer. My dad didn't respond either. Then, my sibling picked up – his speech instantly communicated the awful reality even as he explained.

The Emerging Horror

I've observed countless individuals in media reports whose worlds were destroyed. Their expressions demonstrating they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The torrent of horror were rising, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My young one watched me from his screen. I shifted to make calls separately. When we got to the station, I encountered the terrible killing of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the attackers who took over her home.

I thought to myself: "None of our friends will survive."

Eventually, I saw footage revealing blazes bursting through our house. Despite this, in the following days, I denied the home had burned – before my family shared with me visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

When we reached the city, I called the puppy provider. "A war has started," I said. "My parents may not survive. Our neighborhood fell to by terrorists."

The journey home was spent searching for friends and family while simultaneously shielding my child from the terrible visuals that spread through networks.

The images during those hours were beyond any possible expectation. A child from our community seized by several attackers. Someone who taught me driven toward the border using transportation.

Friends sent Telegram videos that seemed impossible. A senior community member also taken across the border. My friend's daughter and her little boys – kids I recently saw – seized by armed terrorists, the horror apparent in her expression devastating.

The Painful Period

It felt endless for help to arrive our community. Then started the painful anticipation for news. Later that afternoon, one photograph emerged depicting escapees. My parents were missing.

Over many days, as friends worked with authorities identify victims, we searched the internet for evidence of our loved ones. We encountered atrocities and horrors. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the reality grew more distinct. My aged family – along with dozens more – were taken hostage from their home. My parent was in his eighties, my other parent was elderly. In the chaos, 25 percent of our community members were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my mother was released from imprisonment. Before departing, she looked back and offered a handshake of the militant. "Shalom," she said. That gesture – a basic human interaction within unimaginable horror – was shared worldwide.

More than sixteen months later, my parent's physical presence were recovered. He was murdered just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and their documentation remain with me. The two years since – our determined activism for the captives, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has compounded the initial trauma.

Both my parents were lifelong peace activists. Mom continues, like many relatives. We understand that hate and revenge won't provide even momentary relief from our suffering.

I compose these words through tears. Over the months, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The young ones of my friends remain hostages along with the pressure of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I call focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We're used to sharing our story to fight for hostage release, while mourning seems unaffordable we lack – after 24 months, our campaign endures.

No part of this story represents endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed this conflict since it started. The residents across the border experienced pain unimaginably.

I am horrified by political choices, while maintaining that the attackers shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Having seen their atrocities that day. They betrayed the community – creating tragedy on both sides through their violent beliefs.

The Community Split

Telling my truth with people supporting the violence feels like failing the deceased. My community here experiences rising hostility, and our people back home has fought with the authorities consistently and been betrayed repeatedly.

Across the fields, the ruin of the territory can be seen and painful. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that various individuals appear to offer to militant groups makes me despair.