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It unfolded that morning looking perfectly normal. I was traveling together with my loved ones to welcome our new dog. Everything seemed predictable – until reality shattered.

Checking my device, I noticed reports concerning the frontier. I tried reaching my mum, expecting her calm response telling me everything was fine. Nothing. My parent couldn't be reached. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his speech immediately revealed the awful reality even as he spoke.

The Developing Horror

I've seen numerous faces on television whose worlds were destroyed. Their gaze revealing they couldn't comprehend their loss. Now it was me. The torrent of horror were overwhelming, with the wreckage was still swirling.

My young one looked at me across the seat. I moved to contact people separately. When we got to our destination, I encountered the terrible killing of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the attackers who took over her residence.

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

At some point, I witnessed recordings depicting flames erupting from our house. Nonetheless, later on, I refused to accept the building was gone – until my siblings provided images and proof.

The Aftermath

Getting to the station, I contacted the puppy provider. "Conflict has started," I explained. "My parents are likely gone. My community fell to by attackers."

The journey home involved trying to contact loved ones while also guarding my young one from the horrific images that were emerging everywhere.

The images from that day were beyond any possible expectation. A child from our community seized by armed militants. My former educator transported to the border using transportation.

People shared social media clips that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion also taken to Gaza. A young mother accompanied by her children – children I had played with – captured by attackers, the horror visible on her face devastating.

The Long Wait

It appeared interminable for help to arrive our community. Then started the agonizing wait for updates. Later that afternoon, a lone picture appeared of survivors. My parents weren't there.

For days and weeks, as friends worked with authorities locate the missing, we scoured the internet for traces of those missing. We saw atrocities and horrors. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Over time, the reality emerged more fully. My aged family – as well as numerous community members – became captives from the community. My father was 83, my mother 85. In the chaos, 25 percent of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my mum was released from imprisonment. Before departing, she turned and offered a handshake of her captor. "Shalom," she uttered. That gesture – a simple human connection within unimaginable horror – was shared worldwide.

Five hundred and two days afterward, my parent's physical presence came back. He died a short distance from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These experiences and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the destruction across the border – has compounded the primary pain.

My family had always been campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, like other loved ones. We know that hostility and vengeance cannot bring the slightest solace from the pain.

I write this while crying. Over the months, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, not easier. The children from my community are still captive with the burden of what followed is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I describe remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We're used to sharing our story to campaign for the captives, though grieving seems unaffordable we cannot afford – after 24 months, our campaign continues.

No part of this narrative is intended as support for conflict. I've always been against this conflict since it started. The residents across the border endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I'm shocked by political choices, yet emphasizing that the militants are not benign resistance fighters. Having seen their actions that day. They abandoned the population – creating pain for all because of their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth with people supporting what happened seems like betraying my dead. My community here faces rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought with the authorities consistently facing repeated disappointment multiple times.

Across the fields, the ruin across the frontier can be seen and visceral. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that various individuals seem to grant to the attackers causes hopelessness.