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It unfolded on a morning that seemed entirely routine. I journeyed together with my loved ones to pick up our new dog. Life felt secure – before it all shifted.

Checking my device, I discovered reports from the border. I dialed my mother, expecting her reassuring tone saying they were secure. Silence. My father didn't respond either. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his tone already told me the terrible truth even as he spoke.

The Developing Tragedy

I've seen so many people through news coverage whose worlds had collapsed. Their expressions showing they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The torrent of horror were building, and the debris remained chaotic.

My son glanced toward me across the seat. I shifted to make calls separately. By the time we reached the city, I would witness the terrible killing of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the militants who seized her residence.

I remember thinking: "Not one of our loved ones would make it."

Later, I viewed videos showing fire bursting through our family home. Despite this, for days afterward, I refused to accept the home had burned – before my brothers shared with me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Getting to the station, I contacted the kennel owner. "A war has erupted," I said. "My family are probably dead. My community has been taken over by terrorists."

The journey home was spent searching for friends and family while simultaneously guarding my young one from the awful footage that circulated through networks.

The images from that day exceeded any possible expectation. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by armed militants. Someone who taught me transported to the border on a golf cart.

Friends sent social media clips that seemed impossible. A senior community member also taken across the border. A young mother accompanied by her children – children I had played with – being rounded up by attackers, the fear visible on her face stunning.

The Long Wait

It seemed endless for help to arrive the kibbutz. Then began the painful anticipation for information. As time passed, a lone picture circulated of survivors. My family were not among them.

For days and weeks, as community members assisted investigators document losses, we scoured digital spaces for signs of those missing. We saw brutality and violence. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the situation became clearer. My senior mother and father – as well as numerous community members – became captives from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, my mother 85. In the chaos, a quarter of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

Seventeen days later, my mum emerged from imprisonment. As she left, she turned and grasped the hand of the militant. "Hello," she said. That image – a simple human connection amid indescribable tragedy – was broadcast everywhere.

Five hundred and two days later, my father's remains were returned. He died just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Continuing Trauma

These experiences and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. The two years since – our determined activism to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has compounded the primary pain.

Both my parents remained advocates for peace. My parent remains, as are many relatives. We understand that animosity and retaliation cannot bring the slightest solace from the pain.

I share these thoughts through tears. Over the months, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, not easier. The young ones from my community remain hostages with the burden of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I describe focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We're used to discussing events to advocate for hostage release, despite sorrow seems unaffordable we cannot afford – and two years later, our campaign continues.

No part of this story represents endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected hostilities since it started. The population in the territory experienced pain terribly.

I'm shocked by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the organization cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Because I know what they did that day. They betrayed the population – creating suffering for everyone because of their violent beliefs.

The Community Split

Sharing my story among individuals justifying the attackers' actions feels like failing the deceased. My local circle confronts growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned against its government for two years facing repeated disappointment multiple times.

Looking over, the ruin in Gaza is visible and visceral. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the moral carte blanche that many appear to offer to the organizations causes hopelessness.