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It unfolded that morning that seemed entirely routine. I journeyed together with my loved ones to welcome a furry companion. The world appeared secure – then it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I saw news about the border region. I called my mum, anticipating her reassuring tone explaining they were secure. Nothing. My dad was also silent. Afterward, my brother answered – his tone already told me the terrible truth prior to he spoke.

The Unfolding Horror

I've seen numerous faces through news coverage whose existence were torn apart. Their expressions showing they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The deluge of tragedy were overwhelming, amid the destruction was still swirling.

My son watched me across the seat. I shifted to make calls alone. By the time we reached the city, I encountered the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the attackers who seized her residence.

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

Later, I witnessed recordings showing fire bursting through our family home. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the building was gone – until my siblings shared with me photographs and evidence.

The Consequences

When we reached the station, I contacted the kennel owner. "Hostilities has started," I explained. "My parents are likely gone. My community was captured by militants."

The return trip involved trying to contact community members while simultaneously protecting my son from the awful footage that circulated across platforms.

The scenes from that day were beyond all comprehension. A child from our community captured by several attackers. My mathematics teacher driven toward Gaza using transportation.

People shared digital recordings appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted to Gaza. A woman I knew accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the fear apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It seemed interminable for help to arrive our community. Then started the agonizing wait for updates. Later that afternoon, a lone picture emerged of survivors. My family were not among them.

For days and weeks, while neighbors helped forensic teams locate the missing, we combed digital spaces for signs of those missing. We witnessed torture and mutilation. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Emerging Picture

Eventually, the circumstances emerged more fully. My elderly parents – along with numerous community members – were taken hostage from the community. My parent was in his eighties, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, a quarter of our neighbors were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent was released from captivity. Before departing, she looked back and shook hands of her captor. "Peace," she said. That image – a basic human interaction amid indescribable tragedy – was shared everywhere.

Five hundred and two days afterward, Dad's body came back. He was murdered only kilometers from the kibbutz.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and their documentation still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the continuing conflict, the destruction across the border – has intensified the primary pain.

My mother and father were lifelong peace activists. Mom continues, like other loved ones. We understand that hate and revenge cannot bring any comfort from our suffering.

I share these thoughts while crying. Over the months, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The young ones of my friends continue imprisoned along with the pressure of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I term dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We're used to telling our experience to advocate for the captives, while mourning remains a luxury we lack – now, our efforts persists.

No part of this story represents endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed this conflict from day one. The population of Gaza experienced pain beyond imagination.

I'm shocked by political choices, yet emphasizing that the militants are not peaceful protesters. Because I know what they did on October 7th. They failed their own people – creating tragedy on both sides through their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying what happened feels like failing the deceased. My local circle experiences rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned against its government throughout this period facing repeated disappointment multiple times.

Looking over, the destruction in Gaza can be seen and emotional. It appalls me. At the same time, the complete justification that many appear to offer to the organizations creates discouragement.