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It started during that morning looking completely ordinary. I was traveling together with my loved ones to pick up our new dog. Everything seemed steady – then reality shattered.

Checking my device, I noticed reports about the border region. I called my parent, expecting her reassuring tone telling me they were secure. Nothing. My father was also silent. Then, I reached my brother – his tone immediately revealed the awful reality before he explained.

The Emerging Horror

I've witnessed so many people in media reports whose lives had collapsed. Their gaze showing they couldn't comprehend their loss. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of violence were overwhelming, with the wreckage remained chaotic.

My child looked at me across the seat. I moved to reach out alone. By the time we reached our destination, I would witness the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the militants who took over her home.

I recall believing: "None of our family would make it."

Later, I viewed videos revealing blazes bursting through our house. Nonetheless, later on, I couldn't believe the home had burned – until my brothers provided photographs and evidence.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at our destination, I phoned the dog breeder. "A war has begun," I told them. "My mother and father are probably dead. Our neighborhood fell to by attackers."

The ride back was spent trying to contact friends and family while also guarding my young one from the horrific images that were emerging across platforms.

The footage from that day exceeded any possible expectation. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by multiple terrorists. My former educator taken in the direction of the territory on a golf cart.

Friends sent digital recordings appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend also taken across the border. A young mother and her little boys – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the fear visible on her face paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It appeared endless for the military to come the area. Then commenced the agonizing wait for information. As time passed, a lone picture emerged showing those who made it. My parents were missing.

During the following period, while neighbors helped forensic teams document losses, we searched online platforms for evidence of those missing. We witnessed torture and mutilation. There was no footage of my father – no indication about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Eventually, the situation emerged more fully. My aged family – as well as 74 others – became captives from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, a quarter of our neighbors were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my parent left captivity. As she left, she turned and grasped the hand of the militant. "Peace," she said. That moment – an elemental act of humanity amid indescribable tragedy – was broadcast worldwide.

Five hundred and two days later, Dad's body came back. He was murdered a short distance from where we lived.

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and the visual proof still terrorize me. The two years since – our urgent efforts for the captives, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has intensified the initial trauma.

My family were lifelong advocates for peace. My parent remains, like other loved ones. We understand that animosity and retaliation won't provide even momentary relief from this tragedy.

I compose these words while crying. As time passes, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The kids belonging to companions are still captive with the burden of subsequent events is overwhelming.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I describe focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed telling our experience to fight for the captives, though grieving remains a luxury we lack – now, our efforts persists.

No part of this story serves as support for conflict. I have consistently opposed this conflict from the beginning. The population in the territory endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the organization shouldn't be viewed as innocent activists. Because I know their atrocities during those hours. They abandoned the population – causing tragedy on both sides through their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story with people supporting the attackers' actions seems like failing the deceased. The people around me experiences unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled against its government consistently and been betrayed again and again.

Across the fields, the destruction across the frontier is visible and painful. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that numerous people seem to grant to the attackers creates discouragement.