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It started during that morning looking completely ordinary. I was traveling accompanied by my family to welcome a new puppy. Everything seemed predictable – until reality shattered.

Checking my device, I noticed updates from the border. I tried reaching my mother, anticipating her reassuring tone saying they were secure. No answer. My parent didn't respond either. Then, my sibling picked up – his voice instantly communicated the terrible truth even as he said anything.

The Developing Nightmare

I've seen so many people in media reports whose worlds were torn apart. Their gaze showing they couldn't comprehend their loss. Then it became our turn. The torrent of horror were building, amid the destruction was still swirling.

My son looked at me from his screen. I relocated to reach out alone. Once we got to the city, I saw the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the terrorists who captured her residence.

I thought to myself: "Not a single of our loved ones would make it."

Later, I witnessed recordings depicting flames consuming our family home. Despite this, later on, I refused to accept the home had burned – before my siblings sent me visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

Getting to the city, I phoned the puppy provider. "Conflict has begun," I said. "My parents are probably dead. Our neighborhood was captured by terrorists."

The ride back was spent attempting to reach community members and at the same time guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that spread across platforms.

The images from that day were beyond any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son captured by armed militants. My mathematics teacher transported to the territory using transportation.

Friends sent Telegram videos that seemed impossible. A senior community member similarly captured across the border. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – boys I knew well – being rounded up by militants, the terror visible on her face devastating.

The Painful Period

It felt to take forever for help to arrive the area. Then commenced the agonizing wait for news. In the evening, a single image emerged depicting escapees. My parents were missing.

Over many days, as friends worked with authorities document losses, we scoured the internet for evidence of our loved ones. We saw torture and mutilation. We never found recordings showing my parent – no clue regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Over time, the situation became clearer. My elderly parents – together with 74 others – became captives from their home. My parent was in his eighties, my mother 85. Amid the terror, a quarter of our neighbors were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mother was released from imprisonment. Before departing, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of the guard. "Shalom," she uttered. That gesture – a simple human connection amid indescribable tragedy – was broadcast worldwide.

Five hundred and two days afterward, Dad's body came back. He was killed just two miles from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These events and the visual proof remain with me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the original wound.

My mother and father had always been advocates for peace. My mother still is, similar to most of my family. We understand that hate and revenge cannot bring any comfort from our suffering.

I compose these words through tears. With each day, discussing these events becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The children belonging to companions continue imprisoned and the weight of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I call dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We're used to telling our experience to advocate for hostage release, while mourning seems unaffordable we lack – and two years later, our work persists.

Not one word of this narrative is intended as support for conflict. I have consistently opposed hostilities from day one. The residents across the border experienced pain beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by political choices, yet emphasizing that the organization are not peaceful protesters. Because I know what they did on October 7th. They failed the community – ensuring tragedy on both sides due to their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Discussing my experience with those who defend the attackers' actions appears as dishonoring the lost. The people around me faces growing prejudice, while my community there has struggled versus leadership for two years facing repeated disappointment multiple times.

Across the fields, the devastation of the territory is visible and visceral. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the moral carte blanche that various individuals seem to grant to militant groups makes me despair.