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It began during that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I was traveling accompanied by my family to pick up a new puppy. Life felt predictable – until reality shattered.

Checking my device, I saw news concerning the frontier. I tried reaching my mother, hoping for her reassuring tone telling me everything was fine. No answer. My father was also silent. Then, I reached my brother – his tone immediately revealed the devastating news before he explained.

The Developing Horror

I've witnessed countless individuals through news coverage whose lives were destroyed. Their expressions revealing they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The torrent of tragedy were building, and the debris remained chaotic.

My son glanced toward me across the seat. I shifted to reach out in private. When we got to our destination, I encountered the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the terrorists who seized her house.

I thought to myself: "None of our family could live through this."

At some point, I saw footage showing fire bursting through our residence. Despite this, later on, I denied the house was destroyed – not until my brothers shared with me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at the station, I phoned the kennel owner. "A war has begun," I explained. "My parents are probably dead. Our kibbutz fell to by attackers."

The ride back involved trying to contact friends and family and at the same time guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that were emerging everywhere.

The footage during those hours were beyond anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son taken by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me transported to Gaza in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos that defied reality. A senior community member likewise abducted to Gaza. A young mother with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – captured by armed terrorists, the fear apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It seemed endless for help to arrive our community. Then commenced the painful anticipation for information. As time passed, a lone picture emerged depicting escapees. My family weren't there.

During the following period, while neighbors worked with authorities identify victims, we searched digital spaces for traces of our loved ones. We saw atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no indication about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Eventually, the circumstances became clearer. My elderly parents – as well as dozens more – were abducted from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. In the chaos, one in four of the residents lost their lives or freedom.

Seventeen days later, my parent emerged from imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of the militant. "Shalom," she uttered. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity within unimaginable horror – was transmitted worldwide.

Over 500 days later, Dad's body were returned. He was killed only kilometers from where we lived.

The Persistent Wound

These experiences and the visual proof continue to haunt me. The two years since – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has compounded the original wound.

My family had always been advocates for peace. Mom continues, as are other loved ones. We understand that hate and revenge cannot bring even momentary relief from the pain.

I share these thoughts through tears. Over the months, discussing these events grows harder, rather than simpler. The kids belonging to companions are still captive and the weight of the aftermath feels heavy.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I call focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We're used to sharing our story to fight for the captives, while mourning seems unaffordable we cannot afford – now, our campaign endures.

No part of this account is intended as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed this conflict from the beginning. The residents in the territory have suffered terribly.

I am horrified by government decisions, while maintaining that the attackers shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed their actions that day. They betrayed the population – ensuring pain for all because of their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth with people supporting the violence feels like failing the deceased. My community here confronts rising hostility, while my community there has campaigned with the authorities consistently facing repeated disappointment multiple times.

Looking over, the ruin in Gaza can be seen and painful. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that many seem willing to provide to the organizations creates discouragement.