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It began during that morning that seemed perfectly normal. I was traveling together with my loved ones to collect our new dog. Life felt steady – until it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered news concerning the frontier. I tried reaching my parent, anticipating her reassuring tone saying they were secure. No answer. My father was also silent. Then, I reached my brother – his tone immediately revealed the devastating news before he spoke.

The Developing Tragedy

I've observed so many people through news coverage whose lives had collapsed. Their eyes demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their loss. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of violence were overwhelming, with the wreckage remained chaotic.

My son glanced toward me from his screen. I shifted to reach out in private. By the time we arrived our destination, I encountered the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the militants who took over her house.

I recall believing: "Not a single of our friends would make it."

At some point, I saw footage depicting flames bursting through our residence. Despite this, in the following days, I denied the house was destroyed – not until my siblings shared with me images and proof.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at the city, I called the kennel owner. "Conflict has erupted," I explained. "My mother and father are probably dead. Our neighborhood fell to by militants."

The journey home was spent trying to contact community members while also shielding my child from the awful footage that spread through networks.

The footage during those hours transcended any possible expectation. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by armed militants. Someone who taught me driven toward the border using transportation.

Friends sent digital recordings appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured to Gaza. A young mother accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – seized by armed terrorists, the terror in her eyes devastating.

The Long Wait

It felt interminable for help to arrive the kibbutz. Then commenced the agonizing wait for updates. In the evening, a lone picture emerged depicting escapees. My parents were missing.

For days and weeks, while neighbors worked with authorities document losses, we searched online platforms for traces of those missing. We witnessed torture and mutilation. There was no recordings showing my parent – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the reality emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – as well as dozens more – were abducted from their home. My father was 83, Mom was 85. In the chaos, a quarter of our community members were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my mother was released from confinement. As she left, she looked back and grasped the hand of the guard. "Peace," she spoke. That moment – a simple human connection amid unspeakable violence – was broadcast worldwide.

More than sixteen months following, my parent's physical presence came back. He died only kilometers from the kibbutz.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and their documentation remain with me. The two years since – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the ongoing war, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the original wound.

My family had always been campaigners for reconciliation. My parent remains, like many relatives. We know that hate and revenge cannot bring the slightest solace from our suffering.

I share these thoughts through tears. With each day, talking about what happened grows harder, not easier. The kids from my community remain hostages and the weight of what followed feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I call remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We're used to discussing events to fight for freedom, while mourning seems unaffordable we lack – after 24 months, our campaign endures.

Nothing of this story is intended as support for conflict. I continuously rejected the fighting from day one. The population of Gaza have suffered beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by political choices, while maintaining that the militants shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Having seen what they did that day. They betrayed the community – causing pain for all due to their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story among individuals justifying the violence feels like dishonoring the lost. The people around me faces growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought versus leadership consistently facing repeated disappointment again and again.

Across the fields, the ruin in Gaza is visible and painful. It horrifies me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that numerous people seem to grant to the organizations makes me despair.