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It began that morning appearing completely ordinary. I rode together with my loved ones to welcome our new dog. Everything seemed steady – before it all shifted.

Checking my device, I saw reports from the border. I tried reaching my mother, hoping for her calm response saying everything was fine. Nothing. My parent was also silent. Afterward, I reached my brother – his speech already told me the devastating news even as he spoke.

The Emerging Horror

I've witnessed so many people through news coverage whose worlds were destroyed. Their eyes revealing they didn't understand what they'd lost. Now it was me. The floodwaters of tragedy were rising, with the wreckage remained chaotic.

My young one looked at me across the seat. I moved to contact people alone. By the time we got to the station, I saw the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the militants who captured her residence.

I remember thinking: "Not one of our friends will survive."

Later, I saw footage depicting flames bursting through our house. Even then, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the building was gone – before my brothers sent me photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

When we reached the city, I phoned the puppy provider. "Conflict has erupted," I said. "My family are probably dead. Our neighborhood has been taken over by terrorists."

The journey home was spent trying to contact friends and family while simultaneously guarding my young one from the horrific images that spread everywhere.

The footage during those hours transcended all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by armed militants. My former educator driven toward the border on a golf cart.

People shared digital recordings that seemed impossible. A senior community member also taken into the territory. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – children I had played with – seized by militants, the fear in her eyes stunning.

The Long Wait

It appeared endless for the military to come the kibbutz. Then began the agonizing wait for news. As time passed, a single image circulated showing those who made it. My mother and father were not among them.

During the following period, as community members assisted investigators document losses, we scoured digital spaces for evidence of those missing. We saw brutality and violence. There was no footage of my father – no clue about his final moments.

The Developing Reality

Gradually, the situation emerged more fully. My aged family – as well as dozens more – were abducted from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. In the chaos, 25 percent of our community members were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my mum left captivity. As she left, she looked back and shook hands of her captor. "Shalom," she uttered. That image – a simple human connection amid indescribable tragedy – was broadcast worldwide.

Over 500 days following, my father's remains came back. He was killed just two miles from where we lived.

The Persistent Wound

These events and their documentation still terrorize me. The two years since – our desperate campaign to save hostages, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the initial trauma.

My mother and father were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, like most of my family. We recognize that hate and revenge won't provide any comfort from our suffering.

I write this amid sorrow. As time passes, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, not easier. The children from my community remain hostages along with the pressure of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I call focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We're used to discussing events to fight for hostage release, though grieving seems unaffordable we cannot afford – after 24 months, our efforts endures.

No part of this story represents justification for war. I have consistently opposed this conflict since it started. The people in the territory endured tragedy unimaginably.

I'm appalled by government decisions, while maintaining that the attackers cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Because I know their atrocities that day. They betrayed their own people – creating pain for all due to their violent beliefs.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth among individuals justifying the attackers' actions seems like betraying my dead. My community here confronts rising hostility, while my community there has campaigned with the authorities for two years while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

From the border, the destruction in Gaza appears clearly and emotional. It shocks me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that many seem willing to provide to the organizations creates discouragement.