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It unfolded on a morning appearing entirely routine. I journeyed accompanied by my family to welcome a new puppy. Life felt secure – before everything changed.

Checking my device, I saw reports about the border region. I tried reaching my mother, hoping for her cheerful voice saying she was safe. No answer. My father was also silent. Next, my sibling picked up – his voice instantly communicated the devastating news prior to he spoke.

The Unfolding Horror

I've observed so many people in media reports whose worlds had collapsed. Their eyes demonstrating they didn't understand their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The torrent of violence were overwhelming, and the debris was still swirling.

My young one glanced toward me over his laptop. I relocated to contact people alone. When we got to our destination, I saw the brutal execution of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the militants who captured her house.

I recall believing: "None of our loved ones could live through this."

At some point, I viewed videos revealing blazes consuming our residence. Even then, later on, I refused to accept the home had burned – before my family sent me images and proof.

The Fallout

When we reached the city, I called the dog breeder. "A war has begun," I said. "My mother and father are likely gone. Our kibbutz was captured by militants."

The ride back consisted of attempting to reach friends and family while simultaneously guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that circulated through networks.

The scenes of that day were beyond any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son seized by armed militants. Someone who taught me taken in the direction of the territory using transportation.

Friends sent digital recordings that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured across the border. A young mother with her two small sons – boys I knew well – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the terror visible on her face stunning.

The Painful Period

It seemed endless for assistance to reach our community. Then began the terrible uncertainty for news. In the evening, a single image emerged of survivors. My family were not among them.

For days and weeks, as community members assisted investigators document losses, we searched online platforms for evidence of those missing. We saw torture and mutilation. There was no recordings showing my parent – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the circumstances became clearer. My elderly parents – along with dozens more – became captives from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my mother 85. In the chaos, a quarter of the residents were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my parent was released from captivity. Prior to leaving, she turned and shook hands of her captor. "Hello," she uttered. That moment – an elemental act of humanity during indescribable tragedy – was broadcast worldwide.

More than sixteen months afterward, my father's remains were recovered. He died just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and their documentation remain with me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the primary pain.

My family were lifelong advocates for peace. Mom continues, like other loved ones. We know that animosity and retaliation cannot bring the slightest solace from our suffering.

I write this amid sorrow. With each day, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, rather than simpler. The kids of my friends are still captive and the weight of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I describe remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We're used to discussing events to fight for the captives, despite sorrow feels like privilege we lack – and two years later, our efforts persists.

Nothing of this story is intended as endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected this conflict since it started. The residents of Gaza endured tragedy unimaginably.

I'm shocked by political choices, but I also insist that the attackers cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Because I know what they did during those hours. They abandoned their own people – creating pain for all through their violent beliefs.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story with those who defend what happened feels like failing the deceased. The people around me experiences rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought with the authorities throughout this period while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

Across the fields, the devastation in Gaza can be seen and painful. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that various individuals appear to offer to the organizations creates discouragement.