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It started on a morning that seemed perfectly normal. I rode accompanied by my family to welcome a new puppy. The world appeared secure – until everything changed.

Checking my device, I saw news concerning the frontier. I tried reaching my mother, expecting her reassuring tone telling me she was safe. No answer. My dad couldn't be reached. Afterward, my brother answered – his tone already told me the awful reality before he said anything.

The Unfolding Tragedy

I've witnessed countless individuals in media reports whose existence had collapsed. Their eyes revealing they didn't understand their tragedy. Now it was me. The torrent of tragedy were overwhelming, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My child glanced toward me over his laptop. I moved to contact people alone. When we got to the station, I saw the horrific murder of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the militants who took over her home.

I recall believing: "Not one of our friends will survive."

Eventually, I viewed videos showing fire bursting through our house. Nonetheless, in the following days, I refused to accept the home had burned – not until my family provided visual confirmation.

The Consequences

Upon arriving at the city, I called the kennel owner. "Conflict has erupted," I told them. "My mother and father are likely gone. Our neighborhood was captured by terrorists."

The return trip consisted of searching for friends and family while simultaneously guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that circulated across platforms.

The scenes from that day were beyond all comprehension. A child from our community seized by several attackers. My former educator transported to Gaza on a golf cart.

Friends sent social media clips that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend also taken across the border. A woman I knew with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – seized by militants, the terror apparent in her expression devastating.

The Long Wait

It appeared interminable for the military to come the kibbutz. Then began the agonizing wait for information. In the evening, one photograph appeared of survivors. My mother and father weren't there.

For days and weeks, as community members helped forensic teams identify victims, we scoured online platforms for signs of those missing. We witnessed torture and mutilation. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no clue regarding his experience.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the situation emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – together with numerous community members – were taken hostage from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. In the chaos, 25 percent of our community members were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent emerged from captivity. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of her captor. "Hello," she uttered. That image – a simple human connection within indescribable tragedy – was shared globally.

More than sixteen months later, my parent's physical presence were recovered. He was murdered just two miles from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These events and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. The two years since – our determined activism for the captives, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the initial trauma.

My mother and father had always been advocates for peace. My mother still is, similar to most of my family. We understand that hate and revenge don't offer even momentary relief from the pain.

I compose these words through tears. With each day, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, not easier. The young ones of my friends continue imprisoned along with the pressure of the aftermath feels heavy.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I call focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We're used to discussing events to campaign for the captives, while mourning feels like privilege we lack – after 24 months, our work persists.

Not one word of this narrative represents justification for war. I've always been against this conflict from the beginning. The population in the territory have suffered beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by leadership actions, while maintaining that the militants are not peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed their actions on October 7th. They abandoned the community – creating tragedy on both sides through their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Discussing my experience with people supporting the violence appears as betraying my dead. My local circle faces rising hostility, while my community there has struggled with the authorities throughout this period while experiencing betrayal again and again.

Looking over, the ruin across the frontier appears clearly and visceral. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that various individuals appear to offer to the attackers causes hopelessness.