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It began that morning appearing entirely routine. I was traveling accompanied by my family to welcome our new dog. Life felt steady – before it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed updates from the border. I tried reaching my parent, hoping for her cheerful voice explaining they were secure. Silence. My dad couldn't be reached. Then, I reached my brother – his speech immediately revealed the terrible truth prior to he spoke.

The Developing Nightmare

I've seen numerous faces in media reports whose lives had collapsed. Their gaze showing they didn't understand what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of violence were building, amid the destruction was still swirling.

My son watched me across the seat. I relocated to contact people separately. Once we arrived our destination, I would witness the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the attackers who seized her residence.

I thought to myself: "Not one of our family will survive."

Later, I saw footage revealing blazes bursting through our family home. Nonetheless, in the following days, I denied the house was destroyed – not until my family provided images and proof.

The Fallout

When we reached the city, I phoned the puppy provider. "A war has begun," I explained. "My family are likely gone. Our kibbutz fell to by militants."

The ride back consisted of searching for loved ones while simultaneously shielding my child from the horrific images that spread through networks.

The scenes of that day were beyond all comprehension. A child from our community captured by multiple terrorists. My former educator transported to the border in a vehicle.

People shared Telegram videos that defied reality. A senior community member similarly captured across the border. A woman I knew and her little boys – boys I knew well – seized by armed terrorists, the horror in her eyes paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It felt to take forever for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then commenced the agonizing wait for information. As time passed, one photograph emerged showing those who made it. My parents were missing.

For days and weeks, while neighbors assisted investigators document losses, we searched online platforms for evidence of family members. We encountered torture and mutilation. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no clue about his final moments.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the circumstances became clearer. My aged family – as well as numerous community members – were abducted from the community. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. In the chaos, one in four of our community members were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my mum emerged from confinement. As she left, she glanced behind and shook hands of her captor. "Hello," she spoke. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity within unimaginable horror – was broadcast globally.

Five hundred and two days following, my father's remains came back. He died only kilometers from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These events and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has compounded the primary pain.

My family remained campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, similar to most of my family. We understand that hate and revenge won't provide the slightest solace from the pain.

I compose these words through tears. As time passes, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, not easier. The children from my community continue imprisoned with the burden of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I term focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We typically sharing our story to advocate for the captives, though grieving feels like privilege we don't have – and two years later, our efforts endures.

No part of this narrative is intended as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed this conflict from day one. The population in the territory endured tragedy terribly.

I'm appalled by government decisions, while maintaining that the militants are not innocent activists. Because I know their atrocities during those hours. They abandoned the community – ensuring tragedy on both sides due to their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story with those who defend the attackers' actions feels like betraying my dead. My local circle experiences rising hostility, while my community there has fought versus leadership throughout this period while experiencing betrayal again and again.

From the border, the ruin of the territory appears clearly and painful. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that many appear to offer to the attackers creates discouragement.