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It started on a morning looking entirely routine. I journeyed together with my loved ones to pick up a new puppy. Everything seemed steady – before everything changed.

Glancing at my screen, I saw news from the border. I tried reaching my parent, anticipating her reassuring tone saying she was safe. Silence. My father couldn't be reached. Afterward, I reached my brother – his speech instantly communicated the awful reality before he spoke.

The Emerging Horror

I've seen numerous faces on television whose lives had collapsed. Their expressions revealing they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The torrent of horror were overwhelming, and the debris hadn't settled.

My son watched me from his screen. I relocated to reach out separately. When we got to the station, I saw the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the attackers who took over her residence.

I recall believing: "None of our family will survive."

Later, I saw footage depicting flames consuming our residence. Even then, later on, I denied the house was destroyed – before my brothers shared with me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

When we reached the station, I contacted the puppy provider. "Hostilities has begun," I said. "My parents are probably dead. My community has been taken over by terrorists."

The return trip consisted of attempting to reach community members while also guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that circulated everywhere.

The footage from that day were beyond all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by armed militants. My mathematics teacher transported to Gaza on a golf cart.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos that defied reality. A senior community member also taken across the border. A young mother and her little boys – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by attackers, the terror apparent in her expression devastating.

The Painful Period

It seemed interminable for the military to come our community. Then started the terrible uncertainty for information. As time passed, a lone picture emerged showing those who made it. My parents weren't there.

For days and weeks, as friends helped forensic teams identify victims, we scoured digital spaces for evidence of family members. We saw atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no evidence about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the situation emerged more fully. My elderly parents – as well as numerous community members – were abducted from their home. My father was 83, my other parent was elderly. In the chaos, 25 percent of our community members were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my mum was released from imprisonment. As she left, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of her captor. "Hello," she spoke. That image – an elemental act of humanity during unimaginable horror – was transmitted globally.

Over 500 days afterward, my father's remains were returned. He was killed a short distance from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and the visual proof remain with me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism for the captives, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the initial trauma.

My family remained advocates for peace. My mother still is, as are most of my family. We know that animosity and retaliation cannot bring any comfort from this tragedy.

I compose these words amid sorrow. Over the months, talking about what happened grows harder, rather than simpler. The young ones of my friends continue imprisoned with the burden of what followed is overwhelming.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I term remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We're used to sharing our story to advocate for hostage release, while mourning feels like privilege we lack – now, our efforts endures.

No part of this story serves as support for conflict. I continuously rejected the fighting from the beginning. The population of Gaza experienced pain terribly.

I'm shocked by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the organization cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed their actions on October 7th. They failed their own people – ensuring pain for all because of their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth with those who defend the attackers' actions feels like dishonoring the lost. My community here experiences rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought versus leadership throughout this period and been betrayed again and again.

From the border, the ruin of the territory appears clearly and visceral. It horrifies me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that numerous people appear to offer to militant groups makes me despair.