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It began on a morning that seemed perfectly normal. I journeyed accompanied by my family to pick up a furry companion. Life felt predictable – until reality shattered.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered reports from the border. I dialed my mum, hoping for her cheerful voice saying she was safe. No answer. My dad couldn't be reached. Next, I reached my brother – his voice instantly communicated the devastating news even as he explained.

The Developing Tragedy

I've seen so many people in media reports whose lives had collapsed. Their gaze demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their loss. Now it was me. The floodwaters of tragedy were overwhelming, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My child watched me from his screen. I relocated to reach out separately. Once we got to the station, I saw the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the terrorists who captured her home.

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

At some point, I witnessed recordings showing fire erupting from our family home. Even then, for days afterward, I denied the building was gone – before my family sent me photographs and evidence.

The Fallout

Getting to our destination, I phoned the kennel owner. "Hostilities has begun," I said. "My parents may not survive. Our neighborhood fell to by militants."

The ride back was spent searching for community members and at the same time shielding my child from the awful footage that were emerging through networks.

The footage of that day transcended all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son seized by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me driven toward the border using transportation.

People shared social media clips appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend also taken across the border. A young mother accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – seized by armed terrorists, the terror apparent in her expression devastating.

The Long Wait

It felt to take forever for the military to come the area. Then started the painful anticipation for updates. Later that afternoon, one photograph emerged of survivors. My family were not among them.

During the following period, while neighbors worked with authorities locate the missing, we searched the internet for evidence of our loved ones. We saw brutality and violence. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no evidence about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Over time, the situation became clearer. My elderly parents – together with dozens more – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. During the violence, a quarter of our neighbors were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mother emerged from imprisonment. As she left, she looked back and shook hands of her captor. "Hello," she uttered. That moment – a basic human interaction within unspeakable violence – was shared everywhere.

Five hundred and two days later, my parent's physical presence were recovered. He was murdered only kilometers from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These events and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. The two years since – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has worsened the primary pain.

My mother and father had always been campaigners for reconciliation. My parent remains, similar to many relatives. We know that animosity and retaliation don't offer even momentary relief from our suffering.

I share these thoughts through tears. With each day, sharing the experience grows harder, not easier. The kids belonging to companions remain hostages along with the pressure of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I term remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We're used to discussing events to campaign for freedom, while mourning remains a luxury we lack – after 24 months, our work continues.

No part of this account represents support for conflict. I have consistently opposed this conflict from the beginning. The people in the territory experienced pain unimaginably.

I am horrified by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the militants are not benign resistance fighters. Having seen their atrocities during those hours. They abandoned their own people – ensuring tragedy on both sides due to their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Discussing my experience with those who defend the violence seems like betraying my dead. My local circle faces rising hostility, while my community there has struggled versus leadership for two years while experiencing betrayal again and again.

From the border, the devastation across the frontier can be seen and painful. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that many seem to grant to the organizations creates discouragement.