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It started that morning that seemed entirely routine. I was traveling together with my loved ones to collect a furry companion. The world appeared predictable – before it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I saw updates from the border. I dialed my mum, hoping for her reassuring tone explaining she was safe. Silence. My dad didn't respond either. Next, I reached my brother – his voice instantly communicated the terrible truth even as he said anything.

The Developing Horror

I've observed countless individuals in media reports whose existence were destroyed. Their gaze demonstrating they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Now it was me. The floodwaters of violence were rising, amid the destruction was still swirling.

My child glanced toward me from his screen. I shifted to reach out alone. By the time we got to the city, I would witness the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the militants who seized her home.

I thought to myself: "Not one of our family could live through this."

Later, I viewed videos depicting flames consuming our family home. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I denied the house was destroyed – not until my siblings shared with me photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

When we reached the station, I phoned the kennel owner. "Conflict has started," I explained. "My mother and father are likely gone. My community fell to by militants."

The return trip involved attempting to reach friends and family while also guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that circulated across platforms.

The footage of that day were beyond all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son seized by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of the border on a golf cart.

Friends sent digital recordings appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted to Gaza. A woman I knew and her little boys – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the horror visible on her face devastating.

The Long Wait

It seemed endless for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then started the painful anticipation for news. Later that afternoon, a single image emerged of survivors. My parents weren't there.

Over many days, while neighbors assisted investigators document losses, we scoured online platforms for evidence of those missing. We encountered atrocities and horrors. We never found recordings showing my parent – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the reality emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – together with 74 others – became captives from the community. My parent was in his eighties, my other parent was elderly. During the violence, one in four of our community members were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my mum emerged from imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she looked back and shook hands of the guard. "Peace," she spoke. That image – a basic human interaction within unimaginable horror – was shared everywhere.

Over 500 days afterward, my parent's physical presence were recovered. He was murdered a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has worsened the original wound.

My mother and father had always been campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, similar to most of my family. We understand that hate and revenge don't offer any comfort from the pain.

I write this while crying. Over the months, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The young ones belonging to companions remain hostages with the burden of what followed feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I describe dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We typically sharing our story to fight for the captives, despite sorrow remains a luxury we don't have – after 24 months, our efforts endures.

No part of this story represents endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected hostilities from day one. The people of Gaza experienced pain terribly.

I'm shocked by political choices, but I also insist that the militants cannot be considered innocent activists. Since I witnessed their actions during those hours. They abandoned their own people – causing pain for all because of their deadly philosophy.

The Community Split

Sharing my story among individuals justifying the violence appears as failing the deceased. My local circle faces rising hostility, and our people back home has fought against its government consistently while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

From the border, the ruin in Gaza appears clearly and painful. It appalls me. At the same time, the complete justification that various individuals seem willing to provide to the attackers makes me despair.