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It unfolded on a morning looking completely ordinary. I rode accompanied by my family to pick up our new dog. Life felt secure – until reality shattered.

Opening my phone, I saw news from the border. I called my mum, expecting her reassuring tone saying she was safe. Nothing. My dad couldn't be reached. Afterward, I reached my brother – his voice already told me the devastating news before he spoke.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've observed countless individuals through news coverage whose worlds were torn apart. Their expressions demonstrating they didn't understand their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of horror were overwhelming, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My son glanced toward me across the seat. I relocated to contact people alone. By the time we arrived our destination, I saw the terrible killing of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the militants who seized her home.

I remember thinking: "None of our family would make it."

Later, I viewed videos depicting flames consuming our house. Nonetheless, in the following days, I refused to accept the building was gone – until my family provided photographs and evidence.

The Fallout

Getting to our destination, I phoned the kennel owner. "A war has begun," I said. "My mother and father are probably dead. My community has been taken over by terrorists."

The return trip involved searching for community members while also guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that circulated everywhere.

The scenes of that day transcended anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by armed militants. Someone who taught me transported to the border in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated social media clips appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted into the territory. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – seized by armed terrorists, the fear visible on her face stunning.

The Painful Period

It seemed endless for the military to come the area. Then began the painful anticipation for updates. Later that afternoon, a single image appeared showing those who made it. My parents weren't there.

Over many days, while neighbors helped forensic teams locate the missing, we combed online platforms for traces of family members. We saw brutality and violence. We didn't discover footage of my father – no clue regarding his experience.

The Emerging Picture

Over time, the situation became clearer. My aged family – along with 74 others – were taken hostage from their home. My parent was in his eighties, my mother 85. Amid the terror, 25 percent of our neighbors were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my mother was released from confinement. Before departing, she turned and grasped the hand of the militant. "Shalom," she said. That gesture – a simple human connection during indescribable tragedy – was transmitted globally.

Over 500 days following, Dad's body were recovered. He was killed just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the visual proof continue to haunt me. The two years since – our urgent efforts to save hostages, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the destruction across the border – has compounded the original wound.

Both my parents were lifelong peace activists. My mother still is, as are other loved ones. We know that hate and revenge don't offer even momentary relief from our suffering.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. With each day, talking about what happened grows harder, not easier. The children from my community are still captive along with the pressure of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I term focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed discussing events to fight for freedom, despite sorrow feels like privilege we cannot afford – after 24 months, our efforts continues.

Nothing of this account serves as support for conflict. I've always been against the fighting since it started. The people of Gaza experienced pain unimaginably.

I'm shocked by political choices, yet emphasizing that the organization shouldn't be viewed as innocent activists. Having seen their actions that day. They betrayed the community – ensuring pain for all because of their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth with those who defend what happened seems like dishonoring the lost. My community here confronts rising hostility, while my community there has campaigned versus leadership for two years while experiencing betrayal again and again.

Looking over, the devastation in Gaza is visible and visceral. It appalls me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that various individuals seem willing to provide to militant groups makes me despair.