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It unfolded on a morning appearing entirely routine. I was traveling together with my loved ones to welcome our new dog. Life felt steady – before it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered updates concerning the frontier. I tried reaching my mum, hoping for her cheerful voice explaining they were secure. Silence. My father couldn't be reached. Then, I reached my brother – his speech immediately revealed the devastating news prior to he spoke.

The Developing Tragedy

I've observed numerous faces in media reports whose worlds were destroyed. Their expressions revealing they didn't understand what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of horror were building, and the debris was still swirling.

My young one glanced toward me from his screen. I shifted to contact people separately. Once we got to the city, I would witness the horrific murder of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the militants who took over her house.

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

At some point, I viewed videos revealing blazes erupting from our house. Even then, in the following days, I couldn't believe the building was gone – until my brothers provided images and proof.

The Fallout

Getting to the city, I called the puppy provider. "Hostilities has started," I told them. "My mother and father may not survive. Our kibbutz was captured by militants."

The ride back consisted of trying to contact friends and family while simultaneously shielding my child from the awful footage that spread across platforms.

The footage from that day exceeded anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of the border using transportation.

Friends sent digital recordings that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend also taken into the territory. A young mother with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by attackers, the horror in her eyes paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It seemed endless for assistance to reach the area. Then began the agonizing wait for information. As time passed, a single image appeared showing those who made it. My parents were not among them.

During the following period, while neighbors worked with authorities locate the missing, we combed digital spaces for traces of family members. We witnessed brutality and violence. There was no footage of my father – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the circumstances grew more distinct. My elderly parents – along with 74 others – were abducted from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. During the violence, a quarter of our community members were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my parent emerged from captivity. As she left, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of the guard. "Shalom," she said. That moment – a basic human interaction within unspeakable violence – was transmitted everywhere.

More than sixteen months later, Dad's body were recovered. He was murdered a short distance from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These experiences and the recorded evidence remain with me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism for the captives, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the initial trauma.

My family remained advocates for peace. Mom continues, similar to other loved ones. We recognize that hate and revenge won't provide even momentary relief from the pain.

I share these thoughts through tears. Over the months, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The young ones belonging to companions are still captive with the burden of the aftermath feels heavy.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I call dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed telling our experience to advocate for hostage release, despite sorrow seems unaffordable we don't have – now, our work endures.

Nothing of this account represents endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed hostilities from day one. The people in the territory experienced pain beyond imagination.

I am horrified by leadership actions, but I also insist that the organization shouldn't be viewed as innocent activists. Having seen what they did during those hours. They betrayed their own people – creating pain for all because of their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Discussing my experience with those who defend the violence feels like failing the deceased. The people around me experiences unprecedented antisemitism, and our people back home has fought against its government for two years facing repeated disappointment multiple times.

Across the fields, the destruction in Gaza appears clearly and painful. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that many seem to grant to militant groups makes me despair.