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It started during that morning appearing perfectly normal. I was traveling together with my loved ones to welcome our new dog. Everything seemed steady – until reality shattered.

Checking my device, I saw reports concerning the frontier. I called my parent, expecting her reassuring tone explaining she was safe. Nothing. My parent was also silent. Then, I reached my brother – his voice instantly communicated the devastating news even as he said anything.

The Developing Tragedy

I've seen so many people through news coverage whose lives had collapsed. Their gaze demonstrating they didn't understand their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of horror were overwhelming, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My child looked at me over his laptop. I shifted to contact people in private. By the time we arrived the station, I encountered the horrific murder of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the militants who took over her house.

I recall believing: "None of our family would make it."

Eventually, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes bursting through our family home. Even then, for days afterward, I denied the building was gone – until my family provided images and proof.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at the city, I called the dog breeder. "A war has erupted," I said. "My parents may not survive. My community fell to by terrorists."

The return trip involved attempting to reach friends and family and at the same time protecting my son from the horrific images that were emerging across platforms.

The images from that day were beyond all comprehension. A child from our community captured by armed militants. My mathematics teacher driven toward the territory using transportation.

People shared social media clips that seemed impossible. A senior community member similarly captured across the border. A young mother accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – seized by militants, the terror apparent in her expression stunning.

The Painful Period

It felt endless for help to arrive the kibbutz. Then started the terrible uncertainty for news. Later that afternoon, one photograph circulated depicting escapees. My family were not among them.

For days and weeks, as friends assisted investigators locate the missing, we searched online platforms for signs of our loved ones. We saw atrocities and horrors. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Over time, the situation became clearer. My aged family – along with numerous community members – became captives from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, one in four of the residents were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mum left confinement. Before departing, she looked back and grasped the hand of the guard. "Hello," she uttered. That moment – an elemental act of humanity amid unspeakable violence – was transmitted worldwide.

More than sixteen months following, Dad's body were returned. He was murdered only kilometers from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our determined activism for the captives, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the original wound.

My family had always been peace activists. My parent remains, like most of my family. We understand that animosity and retaliation don't offer any comfort from this tragedy.

I write this while crying. As time passes, sharing the experience grows harder, instead of improving. The children of my friends continue imprisoned with the burden of what followed remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I describe focusing on the trauma "immersed in suffering". We've become accustomed sharing our story to fight for the captives, while mourning feels like privilege we lack – after 24 months, our work continues.

Not one word of this narrative is intended as support for conflict. I've always been against this conflict since it started. The residents across the border experienced pain terribly.

I'm appalled by political choices, but I also insist that the militants are not innocent activists. Because I know their atrocities that day. They betrayed the community – ensuring pain for all through their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Sharing my story with people supporting what happened appears as failing the deceased. My local circle experiences rising hostility, while my community there has fought with the authorities for two years and been betrayed repeatedly.

Looking over, the ruin in Gaza is visible and visceral. It horrifies me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that many seem to grant to militant groups causes hopelessness.