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It unfolded that morning appearing completely ordinary. I journeyed accompanied by my family to welcome a furry companion. Everything seemed secure – until it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered reports from the border. I dialed my mother, expecting her reassuring tone telling me everything was fine. Silence. My parent was also silent. Next, my sibling picked up – his tone instantly communicated the terrible truth prior to he explained.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've observed numerous faces through news coverage whose existence had collapsed. Their expressions revealing they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of tragedy were rising, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My young one watched me from his screen. I moved to contact people separately. By the time we got to our destination, I saw the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the militants who seized her house.

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

Eventually, I viewed videos revealing blazes bursting through our house. Nonetheless, later on, I couldn't believe the building was gone – until my siblings provided photographs and evidence.

The Fallout

Getting to our destination, I called the puppy provider. "Hostilities has erupted," I explained. "My family may not survive. My community fell to by attackers."

The ride back involved searching for community members while simultaneously shielding my child from the horrific images that were emerging everywhere.

The scenes from that day were beyond anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher transported to Gaza in a vehicle.

People shared digital recordings appearing unbelievable. A senior community member similarly captured to Gaza. A young mother with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – seized by militants, the horror visible on her face devastating.

The Painful Period

It felt interminable for help to arrive the kibbutz. Then started the terrible uncertainty for information. As time passed, a lone picture circulated of survivors. My family were missing.

For days and weeks, as community members assisted investigators identify victims, we searched digital spaces for evidence of those missing. We saw atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover footage of my father – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the circumstances grew more distinct. My senior mother and father – as well as numerous community members – became captives from their home. My parent was in his eighties, my mother 85. In the chaos, 25 percent of the residents lost their lives or freedom.

Seventeen days later, my mum emerged from captivity. As she left, she turned and offered a handshake of her captor. "Peace," she uttered. That image – a basic human interaction within unimaginable horror – was transmitted worldwide.

Over 500 days later, Dad's body came back. He died only kilometers from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and their documentation continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our determined activism to save hostages, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the primary pain.

Both my parents had always been peace activists. Mom continues, similar to most of my family. We recognize that hostility and vengeance won't provide even momentary relief from the pain.

I compose these words amid sorrow. With each day, talking about what happened grows harder, not easier. The kids from my community continue imprisoned with the burden of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I call dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed sharing our story to fight for the captives, though grieving feels like privilege we lack – and two years later, our work persists.

No part of this narrative represents justification for war. I have consistently opposed the fighting from day one. The residents of Gaza have suffered unimaginably.

I'm shocked by government decisions, but I also insist that the attackers are not peaceful protesters. Because I know their actions on October 7th. They betrayed the population – creating suffering for everyone because of their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience with people supporting the violence appears as dishonoring the lost. The people around me faces growing prejudice, and our people back home has campaigned versus leadership throughout this period facing repeated disappointment again and again.

Looking over, the devastation across the frontier appears clearly and painful. It horrifies me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that many seem willing to provide to militant groups makes me despair.