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It unfolded during that morning looking perfectly normal. I rode together with my loved ones to welcome a new puppy. Life felt secure – before everything changed.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered reports concerning the frontier. I tried reaching my mum, hoping for her calm response explaining she was safe. Nothing. My father couldn't be reached. Afterward, I reached my brother – his voice immediately revealed the devastating news before he spoke.

The Developing Horror

I've witnessed so many people on television whose existence were torn apart. Their gaze demonstrating they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of horror were overwhelming, and the debris was still swirling.

My son watched me from his screen. I moved to reach out alone. When we got to the station, I would witness the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – a senior citizen – shown in real-time by the attackers who took over her home.

I recall believing: "Not one of our loved ones would make it."

Eventually, I witnessed recordings depicting flames erupting from our house. Even then, later on, I couldn't believe the building was gone – not until my brothers provided photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

Getting to the city, I phoned the kennel owner. "Hostilities has started," I said. "My family are probably dead. Our neighborhood was captured by terrorists."

The ride back involved attempting to reach loved ones while simultaneously guarding my young one from the horrific images that circulated across platforms.

The footage of that day exceeded anything we could imagine. A child from our community taken by armed militants. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of the border on a golf cart.

People shared social media clips that seemed impossible. A senior community member likewise abducted to Gaza. A woman I knew accompanied by her children – children I had played with – seized by militants, the terror in her eyes stunning.

The Painful Period

It felt to take forever for help to arrive the area. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for updates. As time passed, a single image circulated showing those who made it. My mother and father were not among them.

For days and weeks, as friends helped forensic teams locate the missing, we searched online platforms for traces of our loved ones. We saw atrocities and horrors. We never found recordings showing my parent – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the reality emerged more fully. My aged family – together with dozens more – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, my mother 85. Amid the terror, a quarter of our community members were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my parent was released from confinement. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of the militant. "Shalom," she spoke. That moment – an elemental act of humanity within unimaginable horror – was shared worldwide.

Over 500 days following, my father's remains were returned. He was killed only kilometers from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and the visual proof still terrorize me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the continuing conflict, the destruction across the border – has worsened the primary pain.

My family remained campaigners for reconciliation. My parent remains, as are many relatives. We understand that hate and revenge cannot bring even momentary relief from this tragedy.

I compose these words amid sorrow. As time passes, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The children of my friends continue imprisoned and the weight of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I term remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We're used to sharing our story to fight for hostage release, though grieving seems unaffordable we lack – after 24 months, our campaign persists.

Not one word of this account is intended as support for conflict. I've always been against hostilities from the beginning. The residents of Gaza have suffered terribly.

I'm appalled by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the attackers are not benign resistance fighters. Because I know what they did on October 7th. They abandoned their own people – ensuring pain for all through their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience with people supporting the attackers' actions appears as dishonoring the lost. The people around me confronts growing prejudice, and our people back home has fought versus leadership consistently facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

From the border, the destruction in Gaza appears clearly and emotional. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that numerous people seem willing to provide to the organizations causes hopelessness.