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It unfolded that morning appearing entirely routine. I rode accompanied by my family to collect a new puppy. The world appeared secure – until reality shattered.

Checking my device, I saw news concerning the frontier. I called my parent, hoping for her calm response saying everything was fine. No answer. My dad didn't respond either. Afterward, I reached my brother – his voice already told me the devastating news prior to he said anything.

The Unfolding Horror

I've seen countless individuals on television whose existence were destroyed. Their eyes demonstrating they couldn't comprehend their loss. Now it was me. The floodwaters of tragedy were building, and the debris was still swirling.

My child looked at me over his laptop. I relocated to make calls alone. Once we reached the station, I would witness the terrible killing of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the militants who took over her home.

I recall believing: "None of our friends could live through this."

Later, I viewed videos showing fire consuming our house. Despite this, for days afterward, I refused to accept the home had burned – not until my siblings provided visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at the city, I contacted the kennel owner. "A war has begun," I explained. "My parents are probably dead. My community was captured by militants."

The return trip involved attempting to reach friends and family while simultaneously protecting my son from the terrible visuals that were emerging everywhere.

The scenes during those hours exceeded anything we could imagine. A child from our community captured by armed militants. My former educator driven toward Gaza on a golf cart.

Individuals circulated social media clips that seemed impossible. A senior community member similarly captured into the territory. A young mother and her little boys – kids I recently saw – captured by attackers, the fear in her eyes stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt interminable for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then commenced the painful anticipation for information. As time passed, a lone picture emerged showing those who made it. My family were not among them.

Over many days, as community members assisted investigators document losses, we scoured online platforms for evidence of those missing. We saw 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 dozens more – were abducted from their home. My father was 83, my mother 85. Amid the terror, one in four of the residents were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my parent was released from captivity. As she left, she looked back and grasped the hand of the guard. "Peace," she spoke. That moment – a simple human connection amid indescribable tragedy – was broadcast worldwide.

Over 500 days following, my parent's physical presence came back. He was killed only kilometers from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and the recorded evidence remain with me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign for the captives, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the initial trauma.

My mother and father were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, similar to most of my family. We understand that hate and revenge don't offer even momentary relief from our suffering.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. With each day, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, not easier. The young ones of my friends are still captive and the weight of subsequent events is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I call focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We typically discussing events to fight for freedom, while mourning seems unaffordable we cannot afford – now, our efforts endures.

Not one word of this story is intended as endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected this conflict since it started. The population of Gaza endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I'm shocked by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the militants are not peaceful protesters. Having seen what they did on October 7th. They failed the community – creating tragedy on both sides through their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying the violence appears as dishonoring the lost. The people around me confronts rising hostility, and our people back home has campaigned with the authorities throughout this period facing repeated disappointment multiple times.

From the border, the ruin across the frontier can be seen and emotional. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that various individuals seem to grant to the organizations causes hopelessness.