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It began that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I was traveling together with my loved ones to pick up our new dog. Life felt steady – until everything changed.

Checking my device, I discovered news about the border region. I dialed my mum, expecting her cheerful voice explaining everything was fine. Nothing. My father was also silent. Then, my brother answered – his tone already told me the terrible truth before he said anything.

The Developing Nightmare

I've witnessed numerous faces in media reports whose worlds had collapsed. Their expressions demonstrating they couldn't comprehend their loss. Now it was me. The deluge of violence were building, with the wreckage was still swirling.

My young one watched me over his laptop. I shifted to contact people separately. When we got to the station, I encountered the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the attackers who captured her house.

I remember thinking: "None of our friends could live through this."

Later, I saw footage revealing blazes erupting from our family home. Nonetheless, in the following days, I denied the house was destroyed – before my siblings sent me photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

When we reached the city, I called the kennel owner. "Conflict has begun," I told them. "My parents are probably dead. Our kibbutz fell to by terrorists."

The return trip was spent searching for friends and family while simultaneously shielding my child from the terrible visuals that circulated across platforms.

The scenes from that day exceeded any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son seized by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me taken in the direction of Gaza in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated social media clips appearing unbelievable. A senior community member also taken to Gaza. My friend's daughter and her little boys – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the fear visible on her face devastating.

The Long Wait

It appeared endless for the military to come the kibbutz. Then began the painful anticipation for information. Later that afternoon, one photograph circulated depicting escapees. My parents were missing.

During the following period, as friends assisted investigators identify victims, we combed the internet for evidence of family members. We encountered atrocities and horrors. We never found recordings showing my parent – no indication regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the situation became clearer. My senior mother and father – as well as numerous community members – became captives from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. In the chaos, a quarter of our neighbors were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my parent was released from confinement. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of the guard. "Peace," she said. That image – a basic human interaction during unimaginable horror – was shared everywhere.

Over 500 days afterward, my father's remains came back. He died a short distance from where we lived.

The Persistent Wound

These events and their documentation continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign to save hostages, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has intensified the initial trauma.

Both my parents were lifelong advocates for peace. Mom continues, as are most of my family. We recognize that hostility and vengeance won't provide the slightest solace from our suffering.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. Over the months, discussing these events becomes more difficult, rather than simpler. The young ones of my friends remain hostages with the burden of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I call focusing on the trauma "immersed in suffering". We've become accustomed sharing our story to fight for the captives, while mourning feels like privilege we don't have – after 24 months, our efforts continues.

No part of this account serves as justification for war. I've always been against hostilities from day one. The population across the border experienced pain beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by government decisions, while maintaining that the organization cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed what they did during those hours. They betrayed the community – creating suffering for everyone because of their deadly philosophy.

The Community Split

Sharing my story among individuals justifying what happened seems like dishonoring the lost. The people around me faces rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned versus leadership for two years and been betrayed repeatedly.

From the border, the ruin in Gaza can be seen and visceral. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that many seem willing to provide to the organizations makes me despair.