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It started on a morning appearing perfectly normal. I journeyed together with my loved ones to welcome a new puppy. Everything seemed predictable – before everything changed.

Opening my phone, I noticed news from the border. I dialed my mother, hoping for her calm response explaining everything was fine. No answer. My parent couldn't be reached. Next, I reached my brother – his speech instantly communicated the terrible truth prior to he explained.

The Developing Horror

I've seen numerous faces through news coverage whose lives were destroyed. Their gaze revealing they couldn't comprehend their loss. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of tragedy were overwhelming, amid the destruction was still swirling.

My child glanced toward me across the seat. I moved to make calls in private. By the time we arrived the station, I would witness the terrible killing of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the terrorists who captured her residence.

I remember thinking: "Not one of our family will survive."

At some point, I saw footage depicting flames consuming our family home. Despite this, for days afterward, I denied the home had burned – before my family shared with me images and proof.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at the city, I called the kennel owner. "Conflict has begun," I said. "My mother and father are probably dead. Our kibbutz fell to by terrorists."

The journey home consisted of searching for loved ones and at the same time protecting my son from the terrible visuals that circulated through networks.

The footage during those hours transcended any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son taken by several attackers. Someone who taught me transported to the territory in a vehicle.

People shared social media clips that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured across the border. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – seized by armed terrorists, the fear apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It appeared interminable for help to arrive the area. Then began the terrible uncertainty for information. As time passed, a lone picture appeared depicting escapees. My mother and father weren't there.

For days and weeks, as friends helped forensic teams identify victims, we combed online platforms for signs of family members. We encountered atrocities and horrors. We never found recordings showing my parent – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the reality grew more distinct. My senior mother and father – together with dozens more – were abducted from their home. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, one in four of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum emerged from imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she turned and offered a handshake of her captor. "Shalom," she spoke. That image – a basic human interaction during indescribable tragedy – was transmitted worldwide.

More than sixteen months following, my parent's physical presence were returned. He was killed only kilometers from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and the visual proof remain with me. Everything that followed – our determined activism for the captives, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has compounded the original wound.

My family remained peace activists. My mother still is, like most of my family. We know that animosity and retaliation don't offer the slightest solace from this tragedy.

I share these thoughts while crying. With each day, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, not easier. The kids from my community continue imprisoned and the weight of what followed remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I call focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We're used to sharing our story to advocate for the captives, while mourning remains a luxury we don't have – after 24 months, our work endures.

No part of this narrative represents endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed the fighting from the beginning. The people in the territory have suffered beyond imagination.

I'm shocked by political choices, while maintaining that the attackers are not benign resistance fighters. Having seen their actions on October 7th. They abandoned the community – ensuring suffering for everyone because of their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth with those who defend what happened appears as dishonoring the lost. The people around me experiences unprecedented antisemitism, and our people back home has fought against its government throughout this period facing repeated disappointment multiple times.

Looking over, the ruin in Gaza is visible and visceral. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that many appear to offer to militant groups creates discouragement.