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It began that morning looking perfectly normal. I rode together with my loved ones to welcome our new dog. The world appeared predictable – before everything changed.

Checking my device, I discovered news concerning the frontier. I dialed my mum, hoping for her calm response saying they were secure. Silence. My parent didn't respond either. Next, my sibling picked up – his voice immediately revealed the devastating news prior to he explained.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've observed countless individuals through news coverage whose worlds had collapsed. Their gaze showing they hadn't yet processed their loss. Then it became our turn. The deluge of tragedy were overwhelming, and the debris was still swirling.

My son looked at me from his screen. I relocated to make calls alone. When we reached our destination, I saw the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the terrorists who captured her house.

I thought to myself: "Not a single of our friends will survive."

Eventually, I witnessed recordings depicting flames erupting from our residence. Despite this, for days afterward, I denied the home had burned – before my siblings sent me photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

When we reached the city, I phoned the puppy provider. "Conflict has started," I said. "My mother and father are likely gone. Our kibbutz fell to by attackers."

The ride back consisted of attempting to reach community members while simultaneously guarding my young one from the horrific images that were emerging through networks.

The footage of that day transcended any possible expectation. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by several attackers. My former educator transported to Gaza in a vehicle.

People shared social media clips that defied reality. A senior community member similarly captured to Gaza. A woman I knew and her little boys – kids I recently saw – captured by militants, the terror apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt to take forever for assistance to reach our community. Then commenced the painful anticipation for updates. In the evening, a single image appeared showing those who made it. My mother and father were not among them.

During the following period, while neighbors assisted investigators identify victims, we combed digital spaces for evidence of our loved ones. We witnessed brutality and violence. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no indication about his final moments.

The Developing Reality

Over time, the circumstances grew more distinct. My aged family – together with numerous community members – were abducted from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. In the chaos, 25 percent of our neighbors were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my parent emerged from captivity. Before departing, she looked back and offered a handshake of the guard. "Shalom," she said. That moment – a simple human connection during unspeakable violence – was transmitted globally.

Five hundred and two days following, my parent's physical presence were recovered. He was murdered a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and their documentation still terrorize me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts for the captives, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has worsened the primary pain.

My mother and father remained advocates for peace. My parent remains, similar to many relatives. We recognize that animosity and retaliation won't provide even momentary relief from the pain.

I write this through tears. As time passes, talking about what happened grows harder, not easier. The kids of my friends continue imprisoned along with the pressure of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I call remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed discussing events to campaign for hostage release, though grieving seems unaffordable we don't have – and two years later, our work continues.

Nothing of this narrative is intended as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed hostilities since it started. The residents of Gaza experienced pain terribly.

I am horrified by political choices, yet emphasizing that the attackers are not peaceful protesters. Having seen their atrocities that day. They betrayed the community – creating pain for all through their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience with people supporting the attackers' actions feels like betraying my dead. My community here confronts growing prejudice, while my community there has struggled versus leadership consistently and been betrayed repeatedly.

From the border, the destruction of the territory appears clearly and emotional. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the moral carte blanche that many seem to grant to the organizations causes hopelessness.