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It started that morning that seemed perfectly normal. I rode together with my loved ones to collect a furry companion. The world appeared steady – until it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed updates from the border. I tried reaching my mother, expecting her reassuring tone saying everything was fine. Silence. My dad couldn't be reached. Next, my sibling picked up – his speech instantly communicated the terrible truth before he explained.

The Emerging Horror

I've witnessed so many people on television whose worlds were torn apart. Their expressions demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their loss. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of tragedy were building, and the debris remained chaotic.

My son glanced toward me over his laptop. I moved to make calls in private. By the time we arrived the city, I saw the brutal execution of a woman from my past – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the militants who took over her home.

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

Later, I viewed videos revealing blazes bursting through our family home. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I denied the home had burned – until my family sent me visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at our destination, I contacted the dog breeder. "A war has erupted," I explained. "My parents are likely gone. Our neighborhood fell to by militants."

The return trip was spent trying to contact community members while simultaneously shielding my child from the terrible visuals that circulated through networks.

The images during those hours exceeded any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son taken by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher driven toward the territory using transportation.

Friends sent digital recordings appearing unbelievable. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured to Gaza. A young mother accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by militants, the terror visible on her face stunning.

The Long Wait

It appeared to take forever for assistance to reach our community. Then commenced the painful anticipation for updates. Later that afternoon, a single image appeared depicting escapees. My family were missing.

During the following period, while neighbors helped forensic teams identify victims, we combed the internet for traces of family members. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the reality became clearer. My aged family – along with dozens more – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. My father was 83, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, a quarter of the residents were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my mother left confinement. As she left, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of the militant. "Hello," she spoke. That image – a simple human connection within unimaginable horror – was shared worldwide.

More than sixteen months following, my parent's physical presence came back. He was murdered a short distance from our home.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the initial trauma.

My mother and father had always been peace activists. Mom continues, like most of my family. We recognize that hate and revenge don't offer even momentary relief from this tragedy.

I share these thoughts while crying. With each day, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, not easier. The children of my friends are still captive and the weight of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I describe dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We're used to sharing our story to advocate for freedom, though grieving remains a luxury we don't have – now, our work persists.

Nothing of this narrative is intended as endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected hostilities from day one. The population of Gaza have suffered beyond imagination.

I'm shocked by government decisions, but I also insist that the organization shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Having seen what they did on October 7th. They failed their own people – causing tragedy on both sides because of their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Sharing my story among individuals justifying what happened feels like betraying my dead. My community here experiences unprecedented antisemitism, while my community there has fought with the authorities throughout this period while experiencing betrayal again and again.

From the border, the destruction in Gaza is visible and painful. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that various individuals seem to grant to militant groups creates discouragement.