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It unfolded during that morning that seemed perfectly normal. I rode accompanied by my family to collect our new dog. The world appeared predictable – until reality shattered.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed news about the border region. I dialed my parent, expecting her cheerful voice explaining everything was fine. Nothing. My parent was also silent. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his speech instantly communicated the terrible truth prior to he explained.

The Developing Horror

I've seen numerous faces in media reports whose existence were destroyed. Their eyes revealing they hadn't yet processed their loss. Then it became our turn. The torrent of tragedy were building, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My child looked at me over his laptop. I moved to make calls in private. When we reached the city, I saw the brutal execution of a woman from my past – a senior citizen – shown in real-time by the attackers who captured her residence.

I remember thinking: "Not one of our friends would make it."

Later, I saw footage depicting flames erupting from our residence. Nonetheless, later on, I denied the house was destroyed – not until my family provided visual confirmation.

The Fallout

When we reached the city, I called the kennel owner. "Conflict has erupted," I said. "My mother and father are likely gone. Our neighborhood has been taken over by militants."

The ride back was spent searching for friends and family and at the same time shielding my child from the horrific images that were emerging across platforms.

The scenes from that day were beyond any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son taken by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me driven toward Gaza using transportation.

People shared social media clips appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured to Gaza. A young mother accompanied by her children – children I had played with – seized by attackers, the terror in her eyes stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It appeared endless for assistance to reach our community. Then started the agonizing wait for news. As time passed, a single image appeared of survivors. My family were missing.

For days and weeks, as community members helped forensic teams locate the missing, we combed digital spaces for evidence of our loved ones. We encountered atrocities and horrors. We never found recordings showing my parent – no evidence about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Over time, the circumstances grew more distinct. My senior mother and father – together with numerous community members – became captives from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, one in four of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent left confinement. Before departing, she looked back and shook hands of the militant. "Hello," she uttered. That image – a simple human connection within unspeakable violence – was broadcast everywhere.

Over 500 days afterward, my father's remains were recovered. He died a short distance from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These experiences and their documentation still terrorize me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts for the captives, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the initial trauma.

Both my parents remained campaigners for reconciliation. My parent remains, like other loved ones. We recognize that hostility and vengeance cannot bring the slightest solace from the pain.

I share these thoughts through tears. As time passes, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, not easier. The kids of my friends are still captive along with the pressure of what followed is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I call remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We typically sharing our story to fight for hostage release, though grieving feels like privilege we lack – and two years later, our efforts endures.

No part of this account serves as justification for war. I've always been against hostilities from day one. The residents of Gaza have suffered terribly.

I'm appalled by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the attackers shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed what they did during those hours. They abandoned the community – ensuring tragedy on both sides due to their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying the attackers' actions seems like failing the deceased. My community here experiences unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled versus leadership for two years facing repeated disappointment again and again.

Across the fields, the ruin in Gaza is visible and painful. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that various individuals seem willing to provide to the attackers causes hopelessness.