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It started during that morning that seemed entirely routine. I was traveling accompanied by my family to welcome a furry companion. The world appeared predictable – until it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I saw updates from the border. I called my parent, anticipating her calm response explaining everything was fine. Silence. My father couldn't be reached. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his tone immediately revealed the devastating news before he said anything.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've observed so many people through news coverage whose worlds were destroyed. Their gaze demonstrating they didn't understand their tragedy. Now it was me. The floodwaters of tragedy were overwhelming, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My son looked at me from his screen. I moved to make calls separately. Once we reached our destination, I would witness the terrible killing of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the terrorists who seized her home.

I recall believing: "Not a single of our friends would make it."

At some point, I saw footage depicting flames bursting through our residence. Even then, in the following days, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – not until my siblings sent me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

When we reached the station, I contacted the dog breeder. "Conflict has begun," I told them. "My parents may not survive. Our kibbutz has been taken over by militants."

The journey home involved trying to contact friends and family and at the same time guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that were emerging everywhere.

The footage during those hours were beyond any possible expectation. A child from our community taken by armed militants. My former educator taken in the direction of the border on a golf cart.

People shared Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured across the border. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – seized by armed terrorists, the terror in her eyes paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It felt interminable for help to arrive the area. Then commenced the painful anticipation for news. As time passed, a single image appeared of survivors. My mother and father were missing.

Over many days, while neighbors worked with authorities identify victims, we scoured digital spaces for evidence of those missing. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. There was no footage of my father – no clue regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the situation grew more distinct. My elderly parents – as well as 74 others – were taken hostage from the community. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, one in four of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my mum emerged from confinement. As she left, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of the militant. "Shalom," she spoke. That image – an elemental act of humanity during indescribable tragedy – was shared everywhere.

Over 500 days following, my father's remains were returned. He was killed a short distance from where we lived.

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts to save hostages, my parent's awful death, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the initial trauma.

My family were lifelong peace activists. Mom continues, similar to many relatives. We know that animosity and retaliation cannot bring any comfort from the pain.

I compose these words amid sorrow. As time passes, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, not easier. The young ones from my community are still captive and the weight of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I call dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed sharing our story to campaign for the captives, despite sorrow remains a luxury we don't have – and two years later, our campaign persists.

Nothing of this account represents endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected the fighting since it started. The population of Gaza have suffered beyond imagination.

I am horrified by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the organization shouldn't be viewed as innocent activists. Since I witnessed what they did during those hours. They failed the community – ensuring suffering for everyone because of their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

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 for two years and been betrayed again and again.

Across the fields, the ruin in Gaza is visible and painful. It appalls me. At the same time, the complete justification that numerous people seem to grant to militant groups creates discouragement.