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It began on a morning appearing perfectly normal. I journeyed accompanied by my family to pick up a furry companion. Everything seemed predictable – then everything changed.

Glancing at my screen, I saw reports concerning the frontier. I called my mum, expecting her calm response saying everything was fine. No answer. My parent couldn't be reached. Next, my sibling picked up – his voice already told me the awful reality before he explained.

The Unfolding Tragedy

I've witnessed numerous faces in media reports whose existence were destroyed. Their expressions showing they didn't understand their tragedy. Now it was me. The deluge of violence were rising, amid the destruction was still swirling.

My child glanced toward me across the seat. I shifted to contact people alone. Once we got to the city, I saw the brutal execution of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the terrorists who seized her home.

I recall believing: "Not one of our friends will survive."

At some point, I viewed videos revealing blazes erupting from our residence. Even then, for days afterward, I denied the home had burned – not until my family shared with me visual confirmation.

The Consequences

Upon arriving at our destination, I contacted the dog breeder. "Conflict has begun," I told them. "My family are probably dead. Our kibbutz was captured by attackers."

The journey home consisted of attempting to reach community members while also shielding my child from the horrific images that spread through networks.

The footage during those hours transcended any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son captured by several attackers. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of the border using transportation.

People shared Telegram videos that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted across the border. A woman I knew and her little boys – boys I knew well – seized by armed terrorists, the horror apparent in her expression devastating.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt interminable for the military to come the area. Then started the painful anticipation for news. Later that afternoon, a single image emerged depicting escapees. My mother and father weren't there.

During the following period, as friends helped forensic teams identify victims, we searched online platforms for traces of our loved ones. We saw atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover footage of my father – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the reality became clearer. My aged family – together with numerous community members – were abducted from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. In the chaos, a quarter of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

Seventeen days later, my parent was released from captivity. As she left, she looked back and offered a handshake of the militant. "Shalom," she said. That moment – an elemental act of humanity amid unspeakable violence – was shared everywhere.

Over 500 days following, my father's remains were recovered. He was murdered just two miles from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These events and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts for the captives, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the destruction across the border – has worsened the original wound.

Both my parents were lifelong advocates for peace. My parent remains, like most of my family. We understand that animosity and retaliation cannot bring any comfort from this tragedy.

I share these thoughts through tears. As time passes, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The young ones from my community are still captive with the burden of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I term focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We're used to telling our experience to campaign for hostage release, while mourning seems unaffordable we don't have – after 24 months, our campaign persists.

Nothing of this story serves as endorsement of violence. I've always been against this conflict from day one. The residents in the territory experienced pain unimaginably.

I'm appalled by political choices, yet emphasizing that the militants are not benign resistance fighters. Having seen their actions on October 7th. They abandoned their own people – creating suffering for everyone through their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth with people supporting the violence appears as betraying my dead. My community here faces growing prejudice, while my community there has fought against its government throughout this period while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

Across the fields, the destruction in Gaza appears clearly and painful. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that numerous people seem to grant to the organizations causes hopelessness.