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It began during that morning looking perfectly normal. I journeyed accompanied by my family to welcome a new puppy. Everything seemed predictable – then it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered news from the border. I tried reaching my mother, hoping for her calm response explaining she was safe. Nothing. My father was also silent. Then, I reached my brother – his speech instantly communicated the terrible truth prior to he explained.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've seen numerous faces on television whose existence were destroyed. Their gaze demonstrating they didn't understand what they'd lost. Now it was me. The deluge of horror were rising, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My young one glanced toward me across the seat. I moved to reach out in private. By the time we got to our destination, I saw the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the attackers who captured her residence.

I remember thinking: "Not a single of our loved ones will survive."

Later, I saw footage depicting flames bursting through our house. Even then, in the following days, I denied the building was gone – until my family shared with me photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

When we reached our destination, I contacted the puppy provider. "Conflict has started," I explained. "My mother and father may not survive. Our kibbutz has been taken over by attackers."

The return trip consisted of trying to contact friends and family and at the same time shielding my child from the terrible visuals that circulated across platforms.

The footage from that day exceeded all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son taken by armed militants. My former educator taken in the direction of the border on a golf cart.

Friends sent social media clips appearing unbelievable. A senior community member also taken across the border. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – children I had played with – seized by militants, the fear apparent in her expression stunning.

The Long Wait

It appeared to take forever for the military to come the kibbutz. Then started the painful anticipation for information. Later that afternoon, one photograph circulated showing those who made it. My parents weren't there.

For days and weeks, as friends worked with authorities identify victims, we scoured the internet for signs of those missing. We saw brutality and violence. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no indication about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the situation grew more distinct. My aged family – as well as numerous community members – became captives from their home. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. In the chaos, 25 percent of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent emerged from captivity. Before departing, she looked back and offered a handshake of the guard. "Shalom," she spoke. That gesture – a basic human interaction amid indescribable tragedy – was transmitted everywhere.

Five hundred and two days following, my father's remains were returned. He was murdered a short distance from our home.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and their documentation still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has intensified the initial trauma.

Both my parents had always been peace activists. My mother still is, as are most of my family. We understand that hate and revenge won't provide even momentary relief from the pain.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. As time passes, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, not easier. The young ones of my friends are still captive along with the pressure of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I describe remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We've become accustomed discussing events to advocate for freedom, despite sorrow feels like privilege we don't have – now, our work endures.

No part of this account serves as support for conflict. I have consistently opposed hostilities from the beginning. The residents in the territory experienced pain unimaginably.

I'm shocked by leadership actions, but I also insist that the militants cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Having seen their atrocities on October 7th. They abandoned the population – causing suffering for everyone because of their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth among individuals justifying what happened feels like dishonoring the lost. My community here experiences rising hostility, and our people back home has struggled against its government for two years and been betrayed multiple times.

Looking over, the devastation across the frontier appears clearly and visceral. It shocks me. At the same time, the complete justification that various individuals appear to offer to militant groups causes hopelessness.