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It began during that morning that seemed entirely routine. I rode together with my loved ones to welcome our new dog. Everything seemed steady – before reality shattered.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered reports about the border region. I called my mum, hoping for her calm response telling me she was safe. Silence. My dad was also silent. Afterward, my brother answered – his voice instantly communicated the awful reality before he said anything.

The Developing Horror

I've observed numerous faces through news coverage whose lives were destroyed. Their expressions revealing they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The torrent of horror were rising, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My young one watched me from his screen. I relocated to reach out separately. Once we got to the city, I saw the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the terrorists who took over her residence.

I thought to myself: "None of our friends would make it."

Later, I saw footage showing fire bursting through our family home. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I refused to accept the home had burned – until my family sent me visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at our destination, I contacted the puppy provider. "Conflict has started," I said. "My mother and father are likely gone. My community was captured by terrorists."

The return trip was spent searching for community members while simultaneously protecting my son from the horrific images that spread through networks.

The footage from that day were beyond any possible expectation. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by several attackers. My mathematics teacher driven toward the territory using transportation.

People shared social media clips that defied reality. A senior community member likewise abducted across the border. A young mother with her two small sons – boys I knew well – captured by militants, the horror apparent in her expression devastating.

The Painful Period

It seemed interminable for assistance to reach our community. Then commenced the painful anticipation for information. As time passed, a single image circulated of survivors. My parents were missing.

Over many days, as community members worked with authorities identify victims, we searched online platforms for signs of our loved ones. We saw brutality and violence. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no evidence about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the reality became clearer. My elderly parents – together with 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.

After more than two weeks, my mum left imprisonment. Before departing, she turned and grasped the hand of her captor. "Shalom," she uttered. That gesture – a simple human connection during unimaginable horror – was shared worldwide.

Over 500 days later, my parent's physical presence were recovered. He died just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and the visual proof continue to haunt me. The two years since – our determined activism for the captives, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has compounded the original wound.

My mother and father remained advocates for peace. Mom continues, as are most of my family. We know that hate and revenge won't provide even momentary relief from this tragedy.

I write this while crying. Over the months, discussing these events grows harder, not easier. The young ones from my community remain hostages and the weight of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I describe remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed sharing our story to campaign for the captives, though grieving remains a luxury we cannot afford – and two years later, our efforts persists.

Nothing of this narrative is intended as justification for war. I continuously rejected the fighting from day one. The residents of Gaza endured tragedy unimaginably.

I'm shocked by government decisions, while maintaining that the militants are not peaceful protesters. Having seen their actions on October 7th. They abandoned the population – causing suffering for everyone because of their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Sharing my story with people supporting the violence seems like betraying my dead. My community here faces unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled against its government throughout this period facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

Looking over, the devastation across the frontier is visible and painful. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that numerous people appear to offer to the organizations creates discouragement.