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It began that morning that seemed perfectly normal. I journeyed together with my loved ones to pick up our new dog. The world appeared predictable – until reality shattered.

Checking my device, I saw updates about the border region. I called my mother, anticipating her cheerful voice telling me she was safe. Nothing. My father didn't respond either. Then, my brother answered – his tone instantly communicated the terrible truth even as he explained.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've seen so many people in media reports whose worlds had collapsed. Their eyes showing they couldn't comprehend their loss. Then it became our turn. The deluge of violence were building, and the debris remained chaotic.

My young one glanced toward me across the seat. I moved to contact people separately. When we got to the station, I encountered the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the attackers who took over her residence.

I thought to myself: "Not a single of our friends will survive."

At some point, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes bursting through our family home. Even then, in the following days, I refused to accept the home had burned – until my siblings shared with me images and proof.

The Aftermath

Getting to the station, I contacted the puppy provider. "A war has started," I said. "My family may not survive. Our kibbutz fell to by attackers."

The ride back involved attempting to reach community members and at the same time guarding my young one from the awful footage that circulated through networks.

The scenes from that day exceeded all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son seized by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me taken in the direction of the territory on a golf cart.

Friends sent digital recordings that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted to Gaza. A young mother with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the fear apparent in her expression stunning.

The Long Wait

It appeared interminable for the military to come the kibbutz. Then started the agonizing wait for updates. Later that afternoon, a lone picture emerged of survivors. My family weren't there.

For days and weeks, as friends assisted investigators identify victims, we searched digital spaces for traces of those missing. We encountered torture and mutilation. We didn't discover footage of my father – no clue about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the circumstances became clearer. My aged family – as well as numerous community members – were taken hostage from the community. My father was 83, my mother 85. During the violence, one in four of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my parent emerged from imprisonment. As she left, she looked back and shook hands of the militant. "Hello," she spoke. That moment – a basic human interaction during unspeakable violence – was shared everywhere.

Five hundred and two days afterward, my parent's physical presence were recovered. He was killed a short distance from where we lived.

The Persistent Wound

These experiences and their documentation continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts to save hostages, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the primary pain.

My family remained advocates for peace. My parent remains, as are most of my family. We know that hostility and vengeance cannot bring the slightest solace from the pain.

I write this while crying. As time passes, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, not easier. The young ones of my friends remain hostages with the burden of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I term remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We're used to discussing events to fight for the captives, despite sorrow remains a luxury we don't have – now, our efforts continues.

No part of this story represents support for conflict. I've always been against hostilities from the beginning. The population of Gaza endured tragedy unimaginably.

I am horrified by leadership actions, while maintaining that the organization cannot be considered innocent activists. Since I witnessed their atrocities during those hours. They abandoned the community – causing suffering for everyone because of their violent beliefs.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth with people supporting the attackers' actions appears as failing the deceased. My community here faces growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought with the authorities for two years facing repeated disappointment multiple times.

Looking over, the ruin across the frontier appears clearly and visceral. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that numerous people appear to offer to the attackers makes me despair.