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It started during that morning appearing completely ordinary. I rode accompanied by my family to welcome a furry companion. The world appeared secure – until everything changed.

Opening my phone, I discovered reports concerning the frontier. I dialed my mum, hoping for her cheerful voice saying she was safe. No answer. My dad didn't respond either. Then, my sibling picked up – his speech immediately revealed the devastating news even as he spoke.

The Developing Tragedy

I've observed so many people on television whose worlds had collapsed. Their eyes revealing they hadn't yet processed their loss. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of horror were building, and the debris was still swirling.

My child glanced toward me across the seat. I shifted to contact people in private. By the time we arrived the city, I encountered the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the militants who captured her home.

I recall believing: "Not one of our loved ones will survive."

Later, I saw footage depicting flames consuming our residence. Despite this, in the following days, I denied the building was gone – before my siblings shared with me visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at the station, I phoned the kennel owner. "Hostilities has erupted," I said. "My family are likely gone. Our kibbutz was captured by attackers."

The ride back was spent trying to contact friends and family while simultaneously protecting my son from the awful footage that circulated everywhere.

The scenes during those hours exceeded all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by armed militants. Someone who taught me transported to the territory in a vehicle.

Friends sent social media clips that seemed impossible. A senior community member also taken to Gaza. A young mother with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – captured by militants, the terror in her eyes devastating.

The Painful Period

It felt interminable for assistance to reach the area. Then began the terrible uncertainty for updates. Later that afternoon, a lone picture emerged showing those who made it. My family were missing.

For days and weeks, as community members assisted investigators locate the missing, we searched the internet for signs of family members. We encountered atrocities and horrors. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no clue regarding his experience.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the circumstances emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – as well as numerous community members – were abducted from the community. My father was 83, Mom was 85. During the violence, a quarter of the residents were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent was released from imprisonment. As she left, she turned and offered a handshake of her captor. "Peace," she uttered. That moment – an elemental act of humanity during indescribable tragedy – was transmitted worldwide.

Five hundred and two days later, Dad's body came back. He was killed only kilometers from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and their documentation still terrorize me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign for the captives, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has compounded the initial trauma.

My family had always been advocates for peace. My mother still is, like other loved ones. We understand that animosity and retaliation don't offer any comfort from our suffering.

I compose these words through tears. With each day, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The young ones of my friends are still captive along with the pressure of what followed feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I describe dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We've become accustomed sharing our story to advocate for freedom, while mourning seems unaffordable we don't have – after 24 months, our work continues.

Nothing of this narrative represents support for conflict. I've always been against the fighting since it started. The residents of Gaza have suffered terribly.

I'm shocked by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the militants shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Because I know what they did during those hours. They abandoned their own people – causing pain for all through their violent beliefs.

The Community Split

Telling my truth among individuals justifying what happened appears as dishonoring the lost. My local circle experiences rising hostility, while my community there has fought with the authorities consistently and been betrayed again and again.

Across the fields, the ruin across the frontier can be seen and visceral. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that many seem willing to provide to the organizations causes hopelessness.