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It started that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I rode accompanied by my family to welcome our new dog. Life felt predictable – before everything changed.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered updates from the border. I dialed my mum, hoping for her reassuring tone telling me they were secure. Silence. My father couldn't be reached. Next, my brother answered – his speech immediately revealed the terrible truth prior to he said anything.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've seen numerous faces on television whose worlds were torn apart. Their expressions showing they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The torrent of horror were building, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My young one watched me across the seat. I shifted to contact people alone. When we got to our destination, I saw the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the attackers who captured her house.

I thought to myself: "Not one of our friends would make it."

At some point, I viewed videos revealing blazes consuming our house. Nonetheless, in the following days, I couldn't believe the home had burned – not until my brothers shared with me visual confirmation.

The Consequences

When we reached the city, I contacted the dog breeder. "A war has started," I said. "My parents may not survive. Our neighborhood was captured by terrorists."

The return trip involved attempting to reach community members and at the same time guarding my young one from the awful footage that circulated through networks.

The footage from that day exceeded anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by armed militants. Someone who taught me driven toward the border in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos that defied reality. A senior community member similarly captured to Gaza. A young mother accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – seized by attackers, the terror visible on her face devastating.

The Agonizing Delay

It appeared endless for assistance to reach our community. Then started the terrible uncertainty for updates. As time passed, one photograph appeared showing those who made it. My family were not among them.

During the following period, as friends assisted investigators identify victims, we searched the internet for evidence of our loved ones. We encountered atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the situation became clearer. My senior mother and father – along with dozens more – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. My father was 83, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, a quarter of our community members were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mum was released from captivity. Before departing, she looked back and grasped the hand of the militant. "Peace," she spoke. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity within unspeakable violence – was transmitted everywhere.

More than sixteen months following, my father's remains came back. He was killed only kilometers from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and their documentation remain with me. Everything that followed – our determined activism to save hostages, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the original wound.

My family were lifelong peace activists. Mom continues, like other loved ones. We recognize that hate and revenge cannot bring even momentary relief from our suffering.

I compose these words through tears. Over the months, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, not easier. The young ones of my friends are still captive and the weight of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I describe focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We typically discussing events to campaign for freedom, despite sorrow feels like privilege we cannot afford – after 24 months, our campaign continues.

Not one word of this narrative serves as support for conflict. I've always been against the fighting since it started. The people in the territory experienced pain terribly.

I'm appalled by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the attackers shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Having seen their atrocities that day. They failed the population – ensuring suffering for everyone due to their deadly philosophy.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience with those who defend the attackers' actions feels like betraying my dead. My local circle faces rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned against its government throughout this period facing repeated disappointment again and again.

Looking over, the ruin in Gaza can be seen and visceral. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that many appear to offer to militant groups makes me despair.