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It unfolded on a morning appearing perfectly normal. I journeyed together with my loved ones to pick up a furry companion. Everything seemed secure – then it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered updates from the border. I called my mother, anticipating her cheerful voice telling me they were secure. No answer. My father was also silent. Afterward, my brother answered – his voice immediately revealed the devastating news before he spoke.

The Emerging Horror

I've witnessed countless individuals on television whose lives had collapsed. Their eyes showing they didn't understand what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The torrent of horror were overwhelming, and the debris hadn't settled.

My young one watched me across the seat. I relocated to contact people separately. By the time we got to the station, I encountered the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the militants who took over her house.

I thought to myself: "None of our loved ones could live through this."

At some point, I saw footage showing fire bursting through our residence. Even then, later on, I couldn't believe the home had burned – until my siblings sent me images and proof.

The Fallout

When we reached the station, I phoned the puppy provider. "Hostilities has started," I said. "My mother and father are probably dead. Our kibbutz was captured by attackers."

The journey home involved trying to contact loved ones while also guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that spread through networks.

The scenes during those hours exceeded all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son taken by armed militants. My former educator driven toward Gaza using transportation.

Friends sent social media clips that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured across the border. A woman I knew and her little boys – boys I knew well – captured by armed terrorists, the terror apparent in her expression stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It appeared interminable for help to arrive our community. Then began the terrible uncertainty for information. In the evening, a lone picture appeared of survivors. My parents were not among them.

For days and weeks, as community members assisted investigators document losses, we searched the internet for evidence of those missing. We saw brutality and violence. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no evidence about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Over time, the situation became clearer. My aged family – along with dozens more – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. During the violence, one in four of the residents were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother left captivity. As she left, she looked back and offered a handshake of the militant. "Shalom," she said. That moment – an elemental act of humanity amid unimaginable horror – was shared everywhere.

More than sixteen months following, Dad's body came back. He died just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These events and the visual proof remain with me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the continuing conflict, the destruction across the border – has compounded the initial trauma.

Both my parents remained peace activists. My parent remains, as are most of my family. We understand that hate and revenge won't provide any comfort from this tragedy.

I share these thoughts through tears. Over the months, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, not easier. The kids belonging to companions are still captive and the weight of what followed remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I describe remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We've become accustomed telling our experience to fight for the captives, while mourning seems unaffordable we cannot afford – after 24 months, our work endures.

Nothing of this narrative is intended as endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected hostilities from day one. The people of Gaza endured tragedy unimaginably.

I am horrified by political choices, but I also insist that the organization shouldn't be viewed as innocent activists. Having seen what they did that day. They betrayed the population – causing tragedy on both sides because of their violent beliefs.

The Community Split

Sharing my story with people supporting what happened appears as failing the deceased. My community here experiences rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought against its government throughout this period and been betrayed again and again.

Across the fields, the destruction of the territory is visible and visceral. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that various individuals appear to offer to the attackers makes me despair.