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It began that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I was traveling accompanied by my family to pick up a new puppy. Life felt secure – then it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I saw updates concerning the frontier. I called my parent, hoping for her reassuring tone explaining everything was fine. No answer. My dad couldn't be reached. Then, my sibling picked up – his tone already told me the terrible truth even as he said anything.

The Developing Tragedy

I've observed numerous faces on television whose existence were torn apart. Their expressions revealing they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The torrent of tragedy were rising, and the debris hadn't settled.

My child glanced toward me over his laptop. I relocated to reach out separately. When we reached our destination, I would witness the horrific murder of a woman from my past – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the militants who took over her residence.

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

Eventually, I saw footage showing fire bursting through our house. Despite this, later on, I couldn't believe the home had burned – not until my brothers sent me photographs and evidence.

The Consequences

When we reached the city, I called the kennel owner. "Hostilities has erupted," I explained. "My family are probably dead. Our neighborhood fell to by attackers."

The journey home involved trying to contact loved ones while also protecting my son from the horrific images that circulated across platforms.

The footage during those hours exceeded anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me transported to the border on a golf cart.

Individuals circulated digital recordings appearing unbelievable. A senior community member similarly captured to Gaza. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – seized by armed terrorists, the fear visible on her face stunning.

The Long Wait

It seemed interminable for help to arrive our community. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for news. In the evening, a lone picture circulated depicting escapees. My mother and father were not among them.

During the following period, as friends worked with authorities locate the missing, we combed digital spaces for traces of family members. We encountered atrocities and horrors. There was no footage of my father – no clue about his final moments.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the circumstances grew more distinct. My senior mother and father – together with 74 others – were abducted from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my mother 85. Amid the terror, 25 percent of the residents were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my parent left captivity. As she left, she looked back and shook hands of the guard. "Shalom," she spoke. That moment – an elemental act of humanity during unimaginable horror – was shared worldwide.

Over 500 days later, my father's remains came back. He was murdered just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. Everything that followed – our determined activism to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has worsened the primary pain.

My family remained campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, similar to other loved ones. We recognize that hate and revenge cannot bring any comfort from the pain.

I write this amid sorrow. Over the months, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, not easier. The young ones of my friends are still captive with the burden of subsequent events is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I call focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We typically discussing events to fight for hostage release, though grieving remains a luxury we lack – and two years later, our efforts continues.

No part of this story represents support for conflict. I continuously rejected this conflict from day one. The residents across the border have suffered terribly.

I am horrified by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the organization shouldn't be viewed as innocent activists. Since I witnessed their actions that day. They betrayed their own people – ensuring pain for all because of their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth with people supporting the violence seems like dishonoring the lost. My community here confronts unprecedented antisemitism, while my community there has fought with the authorities for two years facing repeated disappointment again and again.

Looking over, the devastation across the frontier can be seen and painful. It shocks me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that numerous people appear to offer to the attackers creates discouragement.