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It unfolded on a morning that seemed perfectly normal. I rode accompanied by my family to welcome a furry companion. Life felt steady – before everything changed.

Opening my phone, I saw updates from the border. I tried reaching my mum, hoping for her calm response telling me they were secure. Silence. My father couldn't be reached. Next, my sibling picked up – his tone immediately revealed the devastating news before he said anything.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've witnessed countless individuals through news coverage whose lives were destroyed. Their gaze demonstrating they didn't understand their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The deluge of tragedy were building, with the wreckage remained chaotic.

My son glanced toward me from his screen. I moved to make calls separately. When we got to our destination, I encountered the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the militants who took over her residence.

I thought to myself: "Not one of our friends could live through this."

Eventually, I witnessed recordings depicting flames consuming our family home. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I refused to accept the home had burned – until my siblings sent me photographs and evidence.

The Fallout

Getting to our destination, I phoned the dog breeder. "Conflict has begun," I told them. "My family are likely gone. My community has been taken over by militants."

The return trip consisted of trying to contact community members while also guarding my young one from the awful footage that circulated everywhere.

The scenes during those hours transcended all comprehension. A child from our community seized by several attackers. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of the border on a golf cart.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. A senior community member also taken into the territory. A young mother with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – seized by attackers, the fear in her eyes devastating.

The Agonizing Delay

It seemed endless for help to arrive the area. Then started the agonizing wait for news. As time passed, a single image emerged showing those who made it. My family were missing.

Over many days, as community members helped forensic teams document losses, we scoured digital spaces for traces of our loved ones. We witnessed torture and mutilation. We never found footage of my father – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Emerging Picture

Eventually, the reality grew more distinct. My senior mother and father – as well as 74 others – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. In the chaos, 25 percent of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my mother left confinement. As she left, she looked back and offered a handshake of the militant. "Peace," she spoke. That image – an elemental act of humanity amid unimaginable horror – was broadcast worldwide.

More than sixteen months afterward, Dad's body came back. He was murdered a short distance from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and the visual proof still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the original wound.

My mother and father had always been advocates for peace. My mother still is, as are other loved ones. We know that animosity and retaliation won't provide any comfort from our suffering.

I compose these words while crying. As time passes, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The young ones from my community remain hostages and the weight of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I call dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We're used to sharing our story to fight for hostage release, though grieving feels like privilege we cannot afford – now, our campaign endures.

Nothing of this account represents support for conflict. I have consistently opposed this conflict from the beginning. The residents in the territory have suffered terribly.

I'm appalled by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the attackers shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed what they did on October 7th. They abandoned the community – causing suffering for everyone through their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story among individuals justifying the violence feels like failing the deceased. The people around me experiences unprecedented antisemitism, while my community there has fought versus leadership for two years and been betrayed again and again.

Looking over, the ruin of the territory is visible and visceral. It shocks me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that various individuals appear to offer to militant groups makes me despair.