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It began on a morning appearing entirely routine. I was traveling together with my loved ones to pick up a furry companion. Life felt secure – until reality shattered.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed updates about the border region. I called my mum, hoping for her reassuring tone saying everything was fine. Nothing. My father couldn't be reached. Then, my brother answered – his speech instantly communicated the devastating news prior to he spoke.

The Developing Nightmare

I've observed countless individuals on television whose lives had collapsed. Their gaze showing they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Now it was me. The deluge of violence were building, and the debris was still swirling.

My child glanced toward me across the seat. I moved to reach out separately. Once we got to the station, I saw the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the attackers who took over her home.

I thought to myself: "Not a single of our friends would make it."

Eventually, I witnessed recordings showing fire erupting from our house. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the home had burned – until my brothers sent me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at the city, I contacted the kennel owner. "Conflict has begun," I told them. "My mother and father are likely gone. My community fell to by terrorists."

The ride back involved attempting to reach loved ones and at the same time guarding my young one from the horrific images that were emerging through networks.

The scenes during those hours transcended anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by several attackers. Someone who taught me driven toward the territory in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated digital recordings that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured into the territory. My friend's daughter and her little boys – boys I knew well – being rounded up by militants, the terror in her eyes stunning.

The Painful Period

It appeared interminable for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then commenced the painful anticipation for news. As time passed, a single image circulated of survivors. My mother and father were not among them.

For days and weeks, as friends worked with authorities document losses, we scoured digital spaces for traces of our loved ones. We saw brutality and violence. There was no recordings showing my parent – no indication about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Over time, the reality grew more distinct. My aged family – together with dozens more – were abducted from their home. My father was 83, my mother 85. Amid the terror, a quarter of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

Seventeen days later, my parent was released from captivity. As she left, she looked back and shook hands of her captor. "Peace," she said. That gesture – a basic human interaction within indescribable tragedy – was shared worldwide.

Five hundred and two days afterward, Dad's body were recovered. He was killed a short distance from our home.

The Continuing Trauma

These experiences and the visual proof still terrorize me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign for the captives, Dad's terrible fate, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has intensified the initial trauma.

Both my parents were lifelong advocates for peace. My parent remains, as are most of my family. We recognize that animosity and retaliation won't provide the slightest solace from this tragedy.

I write this while crying. With each day, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, not easier. The young ones of my friends remain hostages along with the pressure of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I call dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed discussing events to campaign for freedom, despite sorrow seems unaffordable we don't have – and two years later, our efforts endures.

No part of this account serves as support for conflict. I've always been against this conflict since it started. The people of Gaza have suffered unimaginably.

I am horrified by leadership actions, while maintaining that the organization cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Having seen their actions during those hours. They failed their own people – creating suffering for everyone due to their violent beliefs.

The Social Divide

Discussing my experience with those who defend what happened seems like dishonoring the lost. My community here experiences rising hostility, and our people back home has campaigned versus leadership for two years and been betrayed repeatedly.

From the border, the ruin of the territory can be seen and emotional. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that many seem willing to provide to the attackers creates discouragement.