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It began during that morning appearing completely ordinary. I rode together with my loved ones to pick up a furry companion. The world appeared steady – then it all shifted.

Checking my device, I discovered updates concerning the frontier. I dialed my mum, hoping for her cheerful voice saying she was safe. No answer. My father didn't respond either. Next, I reached my brother – his speech already told me the devastating news even as he explained.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've observed countless individuals through news coverage whose existence were torn apart. Their gaze demonstrating they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The torrent of violence were rising, with the wreckage remained chaotic.

My young one glanced toward me over his laptop. I shifted to make calls alone. By the time we got to the station, I encountered the horrific murder of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the militants who took over her home.

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

Later, I witnessed recordings showing fire erupting from our house. Nonetheless, in the following days, I couldn't believe the home had burned – until my brothers shared with me images and proof.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at the city, I called the puppy provider. "A war has erupted," I explained. "My mother and father may not survive. My community was captured by attackers."

The return trip was spent searching for friends and family while also shielding my child from the terrible visuals that spread across platforms.

The footage of that day transcended all comprehension. A child from our community seized by several attackers. My mathematics teacher transported to the border on a golf cart.

Individuals circulated digital recordings appearing unbelievable. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured across the border. My friend's daughter and her little boys – children I had played with – seized by armed terrorists, the fear apparent in her expression devastating.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt endless for help to arrive our community. Then commenced the agonizing wait for information. In the evening, a single image appeared of survivors. My parents weren't there.

For days and weeks, as friends assisted investigators identify victims, we scoured the internet for signs of our loved ones. We saw torture and mutilation. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no clue regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Over time, the circumstances became clearer. My elderly parents – along with 74 others – were taken hostage from the community. My parent was in his eighties, my other parent was elderly. During the violence, a quarter of our community members were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my parent left confinement. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and shook hands of her captor. "Hello," she said. That moment – a simple human connection during unspeakable violence – was transmitted worldwide.

Over 500 days later, Dad's body came back. He was killed a short distance from where we lived.

The Persistent Wound

These events and their documentation continue to haunt me. The two years since – our determined activism to save hostages, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has compounded the primary pain.

My family were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, like many relatives. We understand that animosity and retaliation won't provide the slightest solace from the pain.

I write this amid sorrow. With each day, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The children from my community are still captive with the burden of what followed feels heavy.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I term dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We're used to sharing our story to campaign for the captives, though grieving remains a luxury we don't have – and two years later, our work persists.

Not one word of this account is intended as endorsement of violence. I've always been against the fighting from day one. The residents of Gaza experienced pain terribly.

I'm appalled by political choices, yet emphasizing that the militants cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Having seen what they did during those hours. They failed the population – causing tragedy on both sides through their deadly philosophy.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience with those who defend what happened appears as betraying my dead. The people around me experiences rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled with the authorities consistently facing repeated disappointment again and again.

From the border, the ruin of the territory can be seen and visceral. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that various individuals seem willing to provide to the organizations makes me despair.