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It started during that morning looking entirely routine. I journeyed together with my loved ones to collect a new puppy. The world appeared secure – then it all shifted.

Checking my device, I saw reports about the border region. I dialed my mum, expecting her cheerful voice saying they were secure. No answer. My father was also silent. Afterward, I reached my brother – his voice immediately revealed the terrible truth even as he spoke.

The Developing Nightmare

I've seen numerous faces in media reports whose worlds had collapsed. Their expressions demonstrating they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The deluge of horror were building, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My child watched me from his screen. I shifted to contact people alone. Once we arrived the city, I saw the terrible killing of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the terrorists who captured her house.

I recall believing: "Not a single of our loved ones will survive."

At some point, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes erupting from our residence. Even then, in the following days, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – before my siblings sent me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Getting to the city, I contacted the dog breeder. "A war has begun," I told them. "My mother and father are probably dead. Our kibbutz fell to by militants."

The journey home involved attempting to reach loved ones while also shielding my child from the horrific images that spread everywhere.

The images during those hours transcended anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son taken by several attackers. My former educator transported to the territory in a vehicle.

People shared Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. My mother's elderly companion likewise abducted to Gaza. A young mother with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by attackers, the horror in her eyes paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It seemed to take forever for help to arrive our community. Then began the painful anticipation for news. Later that afternoon, a single image circulated of survivors. My family were missing.

Over many days, as community members assisted investigators document losses, we combed the internet for evidence of those missing. We witnessed brutality and violence. We never found footage of my father – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Over time, the situation grew more distinct. My senior mother and father – along with 74 others – were abducted from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. During the violence, one in four of the residents were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum left captivity. Before departing, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of the guard. "Peace," she said. That image – a simple human connection during unspeakable violence – was shared worldwide.

Over 500 days later, my father's remains were returned. He was murdered just two miles from where we lived.

The Persistent Wound

These events and their documentation continue to haunt me. The two years since – our urgent efforts to save hostages, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the original wound.

My family were lifelong peace activists. My mother still is, similar to most of my family. We understand that animosity and retaliation don't offer the slightest solace from the pain.

I write this through tears. With each day, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, not easier. The children from my community remain hostages with the burden of what followed feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I call focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We typically sharing our story to campaign for the captives, despite sorrow remains a luxury we don't have – after 24 months, our efforts persists.

Not one word of this story serves as support for conflict. I've always been against the fighting from day one. The population of Gaza experienced pain terribly.

I'm appalled by government decisions, but I also insist that the attackers shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Having seen what they did that day. They abandoned the community – creating tragedy on both sides through their deadly philosophy.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience with people supporting the violence appears as betraying my dead. My local circle experiences unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled against its government throughout this period while experiencing betrayal again and again.

Across the fields, the ruin in Gaza is visible and visceral. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that various individuals seem to grant to the attackers makes me despair.