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It started on a morning appearing completely ordinary. I was traveling together with my loved ones to welcome a new puppy. Everything seemed predictable – then everything changed.

Opening my phone, I noticed updates about the border region. I tried reaching my mother, anticipating her reassuring tone telling me everything was fine. Silence. My father didn't respond either. Then, my sibling picked up – his speech immediately revealed the awful reality prior to he said anything.

The Unfolding Horror

I've seen countless individuals in media reports whose lives had collapsed. Their gaze demonstrating they didn't understand their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of horror were overwhelming, with the wreckage was still swirling.

My child looked at me from his screen. I shifted to make calls alone. When we reached the city, I saw the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the terrorists who seized her residence.

I remember thinking: "Not one of our friends could live through this."

At some point, I saw footage depicting flames erupting from our residence. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – until my family sent me images and proof.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at the station, I phoned the dog breeder. "Hostilities has begun," I told them. "My mother and father are likely gone. Our kibbutz was captured by attackers."

The journey home was spent searching for loved ones while also guarding my young one from the horrific images that circulated everywhere.

The images from that day were beyond all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son seized by armed militants. My mathematics teacher driven toward the territory on a golf cart.

People shared digital recordings that seemed impossible. A senior community member also taken across the border. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – children I had played with – seized by armed terrorists, the fear apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It appeared endless for the military to come the area. Then commenced the painful anticipation for information. In the evening, a lone picture appeared depicting escapees. My mother and father weren't there.

For days and weeks, as community members worked with authorities identify victims, we searched digital spaces for traces of our loved ones. We encountered brutality and violence. We never found recordings showing my parent – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Emerging Picture

Eventually, the circumstances emerged more fully. My aged family – along with numerous community members – became captives from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. In the chaos, a quarter of the residents were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my parent was released from confinement. Before departing, she looked back and shook hands of the guard. "Hello," she uttered. That gesture – a basic human interaction within unimaginable horror – was transmitted everywhere.

Five hundred and two days following, my parent's physical presence came back. He was killed only kilometers from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and their documentation continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism for the captives, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has intensified the initial trauma.

My mother and father remained campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, like most of my family. We know that animosity and retaliation cannot bring even momentary relief from our suffering.

I compose these words through tears. With each day, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, not easier. The kids belonging to companions remain hostages along with the pressure of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I call remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We typically telling our experience to advocate for hostage release, while mourning remains a luxury we lack – after 24 months, our campaign endures.

Not one word of this story serves as support for conflict. I've always been against this conflict from the beginning. The residents in the territory have suffered terribly.

I'm appalled by political choices, while maintaining that the militants are not peaceful protesters. Having seen their atrocities that day. They abandoned the community – creating suffering for everyone through their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story among individuals justifying the violence appears as failing the deceased. My community here experiences growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned against its government consistently while experiencing betrayal again and again.

Across the fields, the destruction in Gaza appears clearly and visceral. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that numerous people seem willing to provide to the organizations creates discouragement.