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It started that morning looking entirely routine. I journeyed together with my loved ones to collect our new dog. Everything seemed secure – before everything changed.

Checking my device, I discovered news about the border region. I tried reaching my mother, hoping for her reassuring tone explaining she was safe. No answer. My dad didn't respond either. Next, I reached my brother – his voice already told me the awful reality prior to he said anything.

The Emerging Horror

I've seen so many people in media reports whose lives were destroyed. Their gaze demonstrating they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of tragedy were rising, and the debris was still swirling.

My son glanced toward me over his laptop. I shifted to make calls alone. By the time we got to our destination, I would witness the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the militants who seized her home.

I thought to myself: "None of our family would make it."

Later, I witnessed recordings depicting flames consuming our house. Even then, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the home had burned – not until my brothers sent me photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

When we reached our destination, I called the kennel owner. "Conflict has started," I said. "My parents may not survive. My community was captured by terrorists."

The journey home was spent trying to contact community members while simultaneously guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that were emerging through networks.

The footage from that day transcended anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son taken by several attackers. My former educator driven toward the territory using transportation.

Friends sent digital recordings appearing unbelievable. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured across the border. A woman I knew accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – captured by attackers, the horror visible on her face devastating.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt endless for the military to come the kibbutz. Then started the painful anticipation for information. As time passed, a lone picture appeared of survivors. My family were not among them.

For days and weeks, as community members helped forensic teams identify victims, we combed digital spaces for signs of family members. We witnessed torture and mutilation. There was no recordings showing my parent – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the circumstances emerged more fully. My aged family – together with numerous community members – were abducted from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, a quarter of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my parent was released from imprisonment. As she left, she turned and offered a handshake of the militant. "Peace," she spoke. That image – an elemental act of humanity within unimaginable horror – was broadcast globally.

Over 500 days later, my parent's physical presence came back. He was murdered a short distance from our home.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and the recorded evidence remain with me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the primary pain.

My mother and father had always been advocates for peace. My parent remains, similar to other loved ones. We know that animosity and retaliation don't offer any comfort from this tragedy.

I compose these words while crying. Over the months, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The kids of my friends remain hostages along with the pressure of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I describe focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We're used to telling our experience to fight for hostage release, while mourning feels like privilege we cannot afford – after 24 months, our work persists.

No part of this narrative serves as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed hostilities from the beginning. The residents in the territory experienced pain unimaginably.

I'm shocked by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the militants shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed what they did that day. They failed their own people – causing suffering for everyone through their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story among individuals justifying what happened appears as betraying my dead. My local circle confronts growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled with the authorities throughout this period facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

Looking over, the destruction in Gaza appears clearly and visceral. It appalls me. At the same time, the complete justification that many seem willing to provide to the attackers creates discouragement.