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It unfolded during that morning that seemed perfectly normal. I was traveling accompanied by my family to welcome a furry companion. Life felt secure – before it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed updates from the border. I tried reaching my parent, anticipating her reassuring tone explaining everything was fine. No answer. My dad couldn't be reached. Then, my brother answered – his tone instantly communicated the terrible truth before he explained.

The Unfolding Tragedy

I've observed numerous faces in media reports whose worlds were destroyed. Their gaze demonstrating they couldn't comprehend their loss. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of violence were overwhelming, and the debris remained chaotic.

My son glanced toward me across the seat. I relocated to reach out in private. Once we arrived the station, I saw the brutal execution of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the militants who seized her house.

I remember thinking: "None of our family would make it."

Eventually, I viewed videos revealing blazes consuming our family home. Despite this, later on, I denied the house was destroyed – not until my siblings shared with me photographs and evidence.

The Consequences

When we reached the station, I called the dog breeder. "Hostilities has erupted," I told them. "My family are probably dead. Our kibbutz was captured by attackers."

The journey home was spent attempting to reach friends and family while simultaneously shielding my child from the horrific images that spread through networks.

The footage of that day exceeded anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by several attackers. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of the border in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated digital recordings that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion also taken into the territory. A young mother with her two small sons – boys I knew well – being rounded up by militants, the fear in her eyes devastating.

The Painful Period

It seemed endless for the military to come our community. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for news. As time passed, a single image circulated depicting escapees. My family were missing.

During the following period, as friends worked with authorities locate the missing, we scoured digital spaces for signs of our loved ones. We encountered brutality and violence. We never found footage of my father – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Over time, the reality became clearer. My aged family – as well as 74 others – were abducted from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. In the chaos, one in four of our community members were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mother left confinement. Prior to leaving, she looked back and offered a handshake of the militant. "Peace," she said. That moment – a simple human connection within unspeakable violence – was shared everywhere.

Over 500 days following, my father's remains were recovered. He was killed only kilometers from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism for the captives, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the destruction across the border – has compounded the original wound.

Both my parents had always been advocates for peace. Mom continues, like other loved ones. We understand that hostility and vengeance cannot bring any comfort from this tragedy.

I share these thoughts through tears. Over the months, discussing these events becomes more difficult, not easier. The young ones of my friends continue imprisoned with the burden of what followed remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I describe focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed discussing events to fight for hostage release, though grieving feels like privilege we lack – and two years later, our efforts endures.

Nothing of this story serves as endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected the fighting from the beginning. The people of Gaza experienced pain unimaginably.

I'm shocked by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the attackers are not benign resistance fighters. Having seen their actions during those hours. They abandoned the population – creating pain for all because of their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Sharing my story with those who defend the violence seems like dishonoring the lost. My community here confronts rising hostility, while my community there has struggled with the authorities for two years and been betrayed multiple times.

From the border, the ruin of the territory appears clearly and visceral. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that numerous people seem to grant to the organizations causes hopelessness.