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It unfolded on a morning looking entirely routine. I journeyed together with my loved ones to pick up a new puppy. The world appeared secure – until reality shattered.

Opening my phone, I saw news from the border. I tried reaching my mother, expecting her calm response explaining they were secure. Silence. My father was also silent. Then, my brother answered – his voice immediately revealed the awful reality even as he explained.

The Emerging Horror

I've seen so many people on television whose worlds were destroyed. Their eyes showing they couldn't comprehend their loss. Then it became our turn. The deluge of horror were overwhelming, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My young one glanced toward me over his laptop. I moved to contact people alone. Once we reached the city, I saw the terrible killing of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the attackers who took over her home.

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

Eventually, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes bursting through our house. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the building was gone – until my family shared with me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

When we reached our destination, I called the dog breeder. "Conflict has begun," I told them. "My mother and father are likely gone. My community fell to by attackers."

The journey home involved trying to contact friends and family while simultaneously protecting my son from the terrible visuals that were emerging across platforms.

The images from that day were beyond all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son seized by armed militants. My mathematics teacher transported to Gaza using transportation.

Individuals circulated social media clips appearing unbelievable. A senior community member likewise abducted into the territory. A woman I knew accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – captured by attackers, the horror in her eyes stunning.

The Painful Period

It felt to take forever for help to arrive the kibbutz. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for updates. In the evening, one photograph circulated showing those who made it. My parents were missing.

During the following period, while neighbors helped forensic teams identify victims, we combed digital spaces for evidence of those missing. We saw torture and mutilation. We never found recordings showing my parent – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the circumstances grew more distinct. My aged family – as well as numerous community members – became captives from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. During the violence, a quarter of our neighbors were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my parent left imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she turned and shook hands of her captor. "Hello," she uttered. That image – a simple human connection amid unspeakable violence – was transmitted globally.

More than sixteen months following, my parent's physical presence were returned. He died a short distance from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the visual proof remain with me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has compounded the initial trauma.

My mother and father remained peace activists. My mother still is, like most of my family. We recognize that animosity and retaliation don't offer any comfort from our suffering.

I share these thoughts through tears. With each day, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, not easier. The children belonging to companions remain hostages with the burden of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I term dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We typically discussing events to fight for freedom, though grieving feels like privilege we lack – and two years later, our work persists.

Nothing of this story represents endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected hostilities from day one. The people in the territory endured tragedy terribly.

I'm appalled by leadership actions, but I also insist that the attackers cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Because I know what they did on October 7th. They betrayed the population – causing tragedy on both sides due to their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story with people supporting what happened feels like dishonoring the lost. My local circle confronts unprecedented antisemitism, and our people back home has campaigned against its government consistently while experiencing betrayal again and again.

From the border, the ruin across the frontier can be seen and painful. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that various individuals seem to grant to the attackers creates discouragement.