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It unfolded that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I was traveling together with my loved ones to pick up a new puppy. Life felt secure – until reality shattered.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed news concerning the frontier. I called my mother, anticipating her cheerful voice telling me she was safe. No answer. My dad was also silent. Next, my brother answered – his tone immediately revealed the devastating news prior to he said anything.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've observed countless individuals on television whose lives were destroyed. Their eyes demonstrating they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Now it was me. The deluge of violence were rising, with the wreckage remained chaotic.

My son watched me over his laptop. I shifted to reach out separately. When we reached the station, I encountered the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the terrorists who captured her house.

I recall believing: "Not a single of our friends will survive."

At some point, I viewed videos showing fire erupting from our residence. Even then, in the following days, I refused to accept the house was destroyed – not until my family provided visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Getting to the station, I called the puppy provider. "Hostilities has started," I said. "My family are likely gone. Our kibbutz fell to by terrorists."

The journey home was spent trying to contact friends and family and at the same time protecting my son from the awful footage that spread through networks.

The images during those hours exceeded any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son seized by several attackers. My former educator driven toward the territory in a vehicle.

Friends sent Telegram videos that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion likewise abducted across the border. A young mother accompanied by her children – children I had played with – captured by attackers, the terror visible on her face paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It seemed endless for assistance to reach our community. Then began the painful anticipation for information. Later that afternoon, a lone picture emerged showing those who made it. My family weren't there.

During the following period, as friends assisted investigators identify victims, we searched the internet for signs of family members. We saw atrocities and horrors. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the circumstances became clearer. My elderly parents – together with 74 others – became captives from their home. My parent was in his eighties, my other parent was elderly. In the chaos, one in four of our community members were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent left imprisonment. Before departing, she looked back and shook hands of the guard. "Shalom," she spoke. That moment – an elemental act of humanity within indescribable tragedy – was broadcast worldwide.

Over 500 days later, Dad's body were recovered. He was murdered only kilometers from where we lived.

The Persistent Wound

These events and the visual proof still terrorize me. The two years since – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the primary pain.

Both my parents remained advocates for peace. My parent remains, like other loved ones. We understand that animosity and retaliation won't provide even momentary relief from this tragedy.

I share these thoughts through tears. Over the months, discussing these events grows harder, rather than simpler. The kids belonging to companions remain hostages and the weight of subsequent events is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I describe dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We're used to sharing our story to advocate for freedom, despite sorrow remains a luxury we cannot afford – after 24 months, our work persists.

No part of this account serves as support for conflict. I continuously rejected this conflict from the beginning. The population across the border endured tragedy unimaginably.

I'm appalled by political choices, but I also insist that the organization shouldn't be viewed as innocent activists. Since I witnessed what they did on October 7th. They failed the population – creating suffering for everyone through their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience with people supporting what happened seems like dishonoring the lost. The people around me experiences unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled with the authorities throughout this period facing repeated disappointment multiple times.

Across the fields, the destruction in Gaza appears clearly and emotional. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that numerous people seem to grant to the attackers makes me despair.