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It began on a morning appearing completely ordinary. I was traveling together with my loved ones to welcome our new dog. The world appeared secure – before everything changed.

Checking my device, I noticed updates from the border. I dialed my parent, hoping for her reassuring tone saying she was safe. No answer. My parent was also silent. Afterward, my brother answered – his speech already told me the terrible truth before he spoke.

The Developing Tragedy

I've observed countless individuals in media reports whose lives were destroyed. Their gaze demonstrating they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Now it was me. The floodwaters of tragedy were rising, amid the destruction was still swirling.

My child looked at me over his laptop. I shifted to make calls separately. When we got to our destination, I saw the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the attackers who seized her house.

I thought to myself: "None of our friends could live through this."

Eventually, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes erupting from our house. Even then, in the following days, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – not until my family sent me visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at our destination, I called the kennel owner. "Conflict has begun," I said. "My parents are probably dead. My community has been taken over by attackers."

The journey home was spent searching for friends and family and at the same time shielding my child from the horrific images that circulated through networks.

The images during those hours exceeded anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by several attackers. Someone who taught me driven toward the border in a vehicle.

Friends sent social media clips appearing unbelievable. My mother's elderly companion also taken into the territory. A young mother and her little boys – boys I knew well – captured by attackers, the fear apparent in her expression devastating.

The Long Wait

It appeared endless for the military to come the kibbutz. Then started the agonizing wait for updates. Later that afternoon, a single image circulated depicting escapees. My family were missing.

Over many days, as friends worked with authorities locate the missing, we scoured online platforms for signs of our loved ones. We saw atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no indication about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Over time, the situation became clearer. My aged family – together with numerous community members – were abducted from their home. My father was 83, my mother 85. Amid the terror, a quarter of our community members were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother left confinement. Before departing, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of the militant. "Hello," she spoke. That image – an elemental act of humanity during unimaginable horror – was shared globally.

Five hundred and two days afterward, my father's remains were returned. He died a short distance from our home.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the primary pain.

My family were lifelong peace activists. My mother still is, like other loved ones. We recognize that animosity and retaliation won't provide the slightest solace from our suffering.

I compose these words through tears. As time passes, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, not easier. The young ones belonging to companions remain hostages and the weight of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I term dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed discussing events to campaign for hostage release, though grieving seems unaffordable we lack – and two years later, our campaign persists.

Not one word of this narrative serves as endorsement of violence. I've always been against the fighting from the beginning. The residents in the territory experienced pain terribly.

I am horrified by political choices, yet emphasizing that the organization are not peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed their actions during those hours. They failed the community – ensuring pain for all because of their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience with those who defend the violence feels like betraying my dead. My community here experiences rising hostility, and our people back home has campaigned with the authorities consistently facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

Looking over, the devastation of the territory appears clearly and emotional. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that many appear to offer to the organizations creates discouragement.