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It began that morning appearing completely ordinary. I journeyed accompanied by my family to pick up a furry companion. The world appeared secure – before everything changed.

Opening my phone, I saw news from the border. I tried reaching my parent, anticipating her reassuring tone saying she was safe. Nothing. My father couldn't be reached. Next, I reached my brother – his tone instantly communicated the devastating news before he explained.

The Unfolding Horror

I've seen so many people on television whose existence were torn apart. Their gaze demonstrating they didn't understand what they'd lost. Now it was me. The floodwaters of tragedy were rising, with the wreckage was still swirling.

My son watched me over his laptop. I relocated to reach out separately. Once we reached our destination, I would witness the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the terrorists who captured her house.

I recall believing: "Not one of our loved ones will survive."

Eventually, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes bursting through our family home. Despite this, later on, I denied the home had burned – until my siblings sent me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Getting to our destination, I contacted the kennel owner. "Conflict has erupted," I told them. "My mother and father are probably dead. Our neighborhood fell to by militants."

The journey home consisted of attempting to reach community members while also guarding my young one from the horrific images that were emerging across platforms.

The footage from that day exceeded any possible expectation. A child from our community captured by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of the territory using transportation.

Individuals circulated digital recordings appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured to Gaza. A young mother and her little boys – kids I recently saw – captured by militants, the horror visible on her face paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It seemed to take forever for assistance to reach the area. Then began the terrible uncertainty for updates. In the evening, a single image appeared of survivors. My mother and father were missing.

During the following period, while neighbors worked with authorities document losses, we combed online platforms for signs of family members. We saw atrocities and horrors. There was no recordings showing my parent – no indication about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the circumstances grew more distinct. My aged family – together with dozens more – were abducted from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. In the chaos, a quarter of the residents were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mum was released from imprisonment. Before departing, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of the guard. "Peace," she uttered. That image – a basic human interaction during unspeakable violence – was shared everywhere.

More than sixteen months following, Dad's body were recovered. He died a short distance from our home.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and the recorded evidence remain with me. The two years since – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the initial trauma.

Both my parents were lifelong advocates for peace. Mom continues, as are other loved ones. We recognize that animosity and retaliation don't offer even momentary relief from our suffering.

I compose these words through tears. With each day, sharing the experience grows harder, instead of improving. The young ones of my friends remain hostages along with the pressure of the aftermath feels heavy.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I term remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We're used to discussing events to campaign for freedom, despite sorrow feels like privilege we don't have – after 24 months, our efforts persists.

Nothing of this narrative represents endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed hostilities from the beginning. The population in the territory have suffered terribly.

I'm shocked by political choices, yet emphasizing that the organization cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Because I know their actions that day. They abandoned the population – ensuring pain for all through their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth with people supporting the violence seems like dishonoring the lost. My community here faces rising hostility, while my community there has fought versus leadership for two years and been betrayed again and again.

Looking over, the devastation across the frontier is visible and visceral. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the moral carte blanche that many appear to offer to militant groups creates discouragement.