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It began during that morning that seemed entirely routine. I journeyed accompanied by my family to collect a furry companion. Life felt secure – until it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed reports about the border region. I called my parent, hoping for her cheerful voice saying everything was fine. No answer. My parent was also silent. Next, my sibling picked up – his tone instantly communicated the devastating news prior to he spoke.

The Unfolding Horror

I've observed numerous faces through news coverage whose worlds were torn apart. Their expressions demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their loss. Now it was me. The floodwaters of violence were building, and the debris was still swirling.

My young one watched me over his laptop. I shifted to reach out separately. Once we reached our destination, I saw the terrible killing of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the terrorists who captured her residence.

I remember thinking: "Not one of our loved ones could live through this."

At some point, I viewed videos showing fire consuming our residence. Despite this, for days afterward, I denied the home had burned – not until my siblings provided visual confirmation.

The Fallout

When we reached our destination, I contacted the dog breeder. "A war has started," I said. "My family may not survive. Our kibbutz was captured by terrorists."

The return trip involved searching for friends and family and at the same time protecting my son from the awful footage that were emerging across platforms.

The images from that day were beyond any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son taken by several attackers. Someone who taught me driven toward the territory in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured into the territory. My friend's daughter and her little boys – boys I knew well – being rounded up by militants, the fear in her eyes paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It felt interminable for assistance to reach the area. Then commenced the agonizing wait for updates. In the evening, a single image circulated depicting escapees. My family were not among them.

For days and weeks, as community members assisted investigators document losses, we searched online platforms for signs of our loved ones. We encountered brutality and violence. We never found footage of my father – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Emerging Picture

Eventually, the circumstances emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – together with dozens more – became captives from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. In the chaos, 25 percent of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

Seventeen days later, my mum was released from confinement. Prior to leaving, she looked back and offered a handshake of the guard. "Hello," she uttered. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity amid indescribable tragedy – was transmitted worldwide.

More than sixteen months later, my father's remains were returned. He was murdered a short distance from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and the recorded evidence remain with me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the initial trauma.

Both my parents were lifelong advocates for peace. My mother still is, as are many relatives. We know that animosity and retaliation won't provide even momentary relief from this tragedy.

I compose these words while crying. Over the months, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The young ones from my community remain hostages and the weight of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I describe dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We typically discussing events to campaign for hostage release, though grieving remains a luxury we lack – now, our campaign endures.

Not one word of this narrative represents support for conflict. I've always been against this conflict from the beginning. The population in the territory experienced pain unimaginably.

I'm shocked by political choices, but I also insist that the militants shouldn't be viewed as innocent activists. Since I witnessed what they did that day. They betrayed their own people – ensuring suffering for everyone through their violent beliefs.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience with people supporting what happened seems like dishonoring the lost. My local circle confronts growing prejudice, and our people back home has fought with the authorities throughout this period and been betrayed again and again.

From the border, the destruction across the frontier appears clearly and emotional. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that numerous people seem to grant to militant groups makes me despair.