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It began during that morning looking completely ordinary. I journeyed accompanied by my family to collect a furry companion. Life felt predictable – until it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered news from the border. I tried reaching my mum, anticipating her cheerful voice telling me she was safe. Nothing. My dad didn't respond either. Afterward, I reached my brother – his speech instantly communicated the awful reality before he spoke.

The Emerging Horror

I've seen numerous faces on television whose lives were destroyed. Their eyes demonstrating they didn't understand their loss. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of horror were rising, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My young one glanced toward me over his laptop. I shifted to contact people alone. When we got to our destination, I encountered the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the terrorists who took over her residence.

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

Eventually, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes erupting from our family home. Despite this, later on, I denied the building was gone – before my brothers shared with me photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

Getting to the city, I contacted the dog breeder. "A war has erupted," I said. "My family may not survive. Our neighborhood has been taken over by attackers."

The journey home consisted of trying to contact friends and family while simultaneously guarding my young one from the awful footage that circulated everywhere.

The footage during those hours exceeded all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by multiple terrorists. My former educator transported to Gaza on a golf cart.

Friends sent Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured into the territory. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – children I had played with – seized by attackers, the horror visible on her face devastating.

The Painful Period

It felt to take forever for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for information. In the evening, one photograph circulated depicting escapees. My family weren't there.

For days and weeks, as community members helped forensic teams identify victims, we searched the internet for signs of family members. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. There was no recordings showing my parent – no indication about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the situation became clearer. My elderly parents – together with dozens more – became captives from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. During the violence, one in four of our neighbors were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent was released from imprisonment. Before departing, she turned and shook hands of her captor. "Shalom," she uttered. That image – a simple human connection amid unimaginable horror – was shared everywhere.

Over 500 days afterward, Dad's body came back. He died a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Continuing Trauma

These experiences and the visual proof still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism for the captives, my parent's awful death, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has compounded the initial trauma.

My mother and father remained campaigners for reconciliation. My parent remains, similar to other loved ones. We recognize that hostility and vengeance don't offer any comfort from the pain.

I write this amid sorrow. As time passes, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The young ones from my community continue imprisoned with the burden of what followed remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I term dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed discussing events to fight for the captives, though grieving feels like privilege we cannot afford – and two years later, our work endures.

Not one word of this narrative serves as justification for war. I've always been against this conflict from the beginning. The residents across the border experienced pain unimaginably.

I'm shocked by leadership actions, but I also insist that the attackers are not innocent activists. Having seen their actions during those hours. They betrayed their own people – causing tragedy on both sides due to their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth with those who defend what happened seems like failing the deceased. My community here confronts unprecedented antisemitism, and our people back home has campaigned with the authorities throughout this period facing repeated disappointment multiple times.

Across the fields, the destruction of the territory appears clearly and visceral. It shocks me. At the same time, the complete justification that numerous people appear to offer to the organizations makes me despair.