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It began on a morning that seemed entirely routine. I journeyed accompanied by my family to pick up our new dog. The world appeared predictable – before everything changed.

Opening my phone, I saw reports concerning the frontier. I called my mother, expecting her cheerful voice telling me everything was fine. Nothing. My parent was also silent. Next, my sibling picked up – his speech immediately revealed the awful reality prior to he said anything.

The Unfolding Horror

I've observed so many people through news coverage whose lives were torn apart. Their gaze demonstrating they didn't understand their loss. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of tragedy were building, and the debris was still swirling.

My son glanced toward me from his screen. I moved to contact people in private. Once we arrived the city, I saw the horrific murder of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the militants who seized her home.

I remember thinking: "Not one of our loved ones could live through this."

At some point, I saw footage showing fire bursting through our house. Nonetheless, later on, I denied the building was gone – not until my family sent me photographs and evidence.

The Fallout

When we reached our destination, I called the dog breeder. "A war has started," I told them. "My family may not survive. Our neighborhood fell to by militants."

The journey home involved trying to contact community members and at the same time protecting my son from the awful footage that were emerging through networks.

The images of that day were beyond anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me transported to Gaza in a vehicle.

People shared social media clips that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion also taken across the border. My friend's daughter and her little boys – boys I knew well – being rounded up by attackers, the fear in her eyes stunning.

The Painful Period

It seemed interminable for the military to come the kibbutz. Then began the terrible uncertainty for information. Later that afternoon, a single image emerged showing those who made it. My family weren't there.

During the following period, as community members worked with authorities locate the missing, we searched digital spaces for evidence of those missing. We saw brutality and violence. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the situation grew more distinct. My elderly parents – along with dozens more – became captives from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. Amid the terror, one in four of the residents lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my parent emerged from confinement. Before departing, she looked back and grasped the hand of her captor. "Peace," she said. That moment – a basic human interaction amid indescribable tragedy – was broadcast everywhere.

Five hundred and two days afterward, my father's remains came back. He was murdered a short distance from our home.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and their documentation continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the original wound.

My mother and father had always been advocates for peace. My parent remains, as are other loved ones. We understand that animosity and retaliation won't provide any comfort from our suffering.

I write this while crying. With each day, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, not easier. The children belonging to companions are still captive along with the pressure of what followed feels heavy.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I call focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We typically telling our experience to fight for the captives, though grieving feels like privilege we don't have – after 24 months, our work persists.

Not one word of this account serves as support for conflict. I've always been against this conflict since it started. The population in the territory endured tragedy terribly.

I am horrified by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the militants shouldn't be viewed as innocent activists. Having seen what they did during those hours. They betrayed the population – creating pain for all because of their violent beliefs.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth with people supporting the violence appears as betraying my dead. The people around me confronts rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled against its government consistently facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

Looking over, the destruction in Gaza is visible and painful. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that many appear to offer to militant groups creates discouragement.