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It started that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I was traveling accompanied by my family to collect a new puppy. Everything seemed secure – then it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I saw news about the border region. I dialed my mother, expecting her cheerful voice explaining everything was fine. Silence. My father was also silent. Then, my sibling picked up – his tone instantly communicated the devastating news even as he said anything.

The Unfolding Tragedy

I've witnessed so many people in media reports whose lives were destroyed. Their eyes showing they didn't understand their tragedy. Now it was me. The deluge of horror were overwhelming, with the wreckage remained chaotic.

My young one looked at me across the seat. I shifted to contact people in private. By the time we reached the city, I saw the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – a senior citizen – shown in real-time by the attackers who seized her house.

I remember thinking: "None of our loved ones would make it."

At some point, I saw footage depicting flames consuming our family home. Nonetheless, later on, I couldn't believe the building was gone – not until my brothers provided photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

When we reached the station, I contacted the dog breeder. "Conflict has begun," I said. "My family are likely gone. Our kibbutz was captured by terrorists."

The ride back involved trying to contact loved ones while simultaneously shielding my child from the awful footage that spread everywhere.

The images from that day transcended any possible expectation. A child from our community taken by several attackers. My mathematics teacher transported to the border on a golf cart.

Individuals circulated social media clips that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured into the territory. A woman I knew and her little boys – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by attackers, the fear in her eyes stunning.

The Painful Period

It appeared to take forever for assistance to reach our community. Then commenced the painful anticipation for information. As time passed, a lone picture appeared showing those who made it. My parents were missing.

For days and weeks, as community members assisted investigators locate the missing, we searched digital spaces for evidence of our loved ones. We encountered torture and mutilation. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no indication regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Gradually, the circumstances emerged more fully. My elderly parents – as well as 74 others – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. Amid the terror, one in four of our community members were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent left confinement. Before departing, she glanced behind and shook hands of the guard. "Hello," she spoke. That image – a basic human interaction amid unspeakable violence – was broadcast everywhere.

More than sixteen months afterward, Dad's body came back. He was murdered just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and the recorded evidence remain with me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts for the captives, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the devastation in Gaza – has compounded the original wound.

Both my parents were lifelong peace activists. My parent remains, like many relatives. We understand that animosity and retaliation don't offer the slightest solace from our suffering.

I write this through tears. Over the months, discussing these events becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The young ones belonging to companions are still captive along with the pressure of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I call dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed discussing events to fight for hostage release, though grieving remains a luxury we don't have – now, our campaign persists.

Nothing of this story represents support for conflict. I have consistently opposed hostilities from day one. The people across the border experienced pain beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the organization cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Because I know what they did during those hours. They betrayed their own people – creating tragedy on both sides through their deadly philosophy.

The Community Split

Telling my truth among individuals justifying the attackers' actions feels like failing the deceased. My local circle confronts rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned against its government consistently and been betrayed multiple times.

Across the fields, the devastation of the territory appears clearly and emotional. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that various individuals seem to grant to the organizations makes me despair.