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It unfolded during that morning looking entirely routine. I was traveling together with my loved ones to collect a furry companion. The world appeared secure – until it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered news from the border. I dialed my mum, anticipating her calm response telling me they were secure. Silence. My father couldn't be reached. Then, my brother answered – his tone instantly communicated the terrible truth even as he explained.

The Developing Horror

I've seen numerous faces in media reports whose worlds were torn apart. Their eyes revealing they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The torrent of tragedy were overwhelming, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My young one looked at me across the seat. I relocated to reach out separately. Once we arrived the city, I saw the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the terrorists who took over her house.

I remember thinking: "Not a single of our family would make it."

At some point, I witnessed recordings showing fire erupting from our house. Nonetheless, later on, I denied the house was destroyed – until my brothers shared with me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

When we reached our destination, I contacted the kennel owner. "Conflict has begun," I told them. "My mother and father are probably dead. Our neighborhood has been taken over by terrorists."

The ride back was spent trying to contact loved ones while also shielding my child from the terrible visuals that spread through networks.

The scenes of that day were beyond all comprehension. A child from our community taken by multiple terrorists. My former educator driven toward Gaza in a vehicle.

People shared digital recordings appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted to Gaza. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – children I had played with – being rounded up by attackers, the horror visible on her face paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It appeared to take forever for help to arrive the kibbutz. Then commenced the painful anticipation for updates. As time passed, a single image emerged of survivors. My family weren't there.

For days and weeks, as community members helped forensic teams identify victims, we combed online platforms for traces of those missing. We saw brutality and violence. We didn't discover footage of my father – no indication about his final moments.

The Developing Reality

Gradually, the reality emerged more fully. My aged family – together with dozens more – were taken hostage from the community. My parent was in his eighties, my mother 85. During the violence, a quarter of our neighbors were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent was released from confinement. Prior to leaving, she turned and shook hands of the militant. "Shalom," she spoke. That image – a basic human interaction within unimaginable horror – was shared everywhere.

Over 500 days later, my parent's physical presence were returned. He was killed only kilometers from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and the visual proof 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 worsened the primary pain.

Both my parents were lifelong peace activists. Mom continues, like most of my family. We recognize that animosity and retaliation won't provide any comfort from the pain.

I write this through tears. As time passes, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, not easier. The children belonging to companions are still captive and the weight of what followed is overwhelming.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I describe dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We're used to sharing our story to campaign for the captives, while mourning seems unaffordable we lack – and two years later, our campaign persists.

No part of this account is intended as support for conflict. I have consistently opposed hostilities from day one. The residents across the border endured tragedy terribly.

I am horrified by leadership actions, but I also insist that the organization are not peaceful protesters. Having seen what they did during those hours. They betrayed the community – ensuring tragedy on both sides due to their deadly philosophy.

The Community Split

Sharing my story among individuals justifying what happened seems like failing the deceased. My local circle confronts unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled with the authorities consistently and been betrayed repeatedly.

Across the fields, the devastation in Gaza is visible and visceral. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that many appear to offer to the organizations creates discouragement.