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It began during that morning appearing completely ordinary. I rode accompanied by my family to collect our new dog. Life felt secure – until everything changed.

Opening my phone, I discovered news concerning the frontier. I dialed my parent, hoping for her calm response telling me everything was fine. Nothing. My dad was also silent. Then, my brother answered – his speech already told me the terrible truth prior to he spoke.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've seen countless individuals through news coverage whose existence had collapsed. Their eyes showing they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of violence were rising, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My son watched me over his laptop. I relocated to make calls separately. By the time we got to the station, I encountered the terrible killing of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the attackers who took over her home.

I thought to myself: "Not one of our friends will survive."

Eventually, I viewed videos showing fire erupting from our house. Even then, later on, I refused to accept the building was gone – until my brothers sent me photographs and evidence.

The Consequences

Upon arriving at the city, I contacted the dog breeder. "A war has erupted," I explained. "My family may not survive. Our neighborhood fell to by terrorists."

The journey home involved searching for community members while also protecting my son from the awful footage that circulated everywhere.

The images from that day exceeded any possible expectation. A child from our community captured by several attackers. Someone who taught me transported to Gaza using transportation.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend also taken to Gaza. A young mother and her little boys – boys I knew well – captured by attackers, the terror apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It appeared endless for assistance to reach our community. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for news. Later that afternoon, one photograph appeared of survivors. My mother and father weren't there.

During the following period, while neighbors worked with authorities identify victims, we combed the internet for signs of family members. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. We never found recordings showing my parent – no indication about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the situation became clearer. My aged family – as well as numerous community members – were abducted from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my mother 85. During the violence, a quarter of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent emerged from captivity. As she left, she looked back and shook hands of the guard. "Hello," she said. That moment – a simple human connection during unimaginable horror – was broadcast everywhere.

Over 500 days afterward, my parent's physical presence came back. He died a short distance from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These events and their documentation remain with me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts for the captives, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has compounded the primary pain.

My mother and father had always been campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, like most of my family. We understand that hate and revenge don't offer the slightest solace from this tragedy.

I write this while crying. With each day, talking about what happened grows harder, not easier. The children belonging to companions are still captive along with the pressure of the aftermath feels heavy.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I call focusing on the trauma "immersed in suffering". We typically telling our experience to fight for the captives, while mourning seems unaffordable we cannot afford – and two years later, our campaign continues.

Not one word of this narrative represents endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected this conflict from the beginning. The people of Gaza have suffered beyond imagination.

I am horrified by leadership actions, while maintaining that the militants are not innocent activists. Having seen their actions that day. They betrayed their own people – ensuring pain for all due to their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth with those who defend what happened seems like betraying my dead. My local circle experiences unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought with the authorities for two years while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

Across the fields, the devastation across the frontier appears clearly and visceral. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the moral carte blanche that numerous people seem willing to provide to militant groups creates discouragement.