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It unfolded on a morning looking perfectly normal. I was traveling together with my loved ones to pick up a furry companion. Life felt steady – until it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I saw updates from the border. I tried reaching my mother, expecting her cheerful voice explaining everything was fine. No answer. My dad was also silent. Next, my sibling picked up – his voice immediately revealed the terrible truth prior to he explained.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've observed numerous faces in media reports whose worlds were torn apart. Their eyes showing they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The torrent of violence were overwhelming, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My child looked at me across the seat. I moved to make calls in private. When we reached the station, I encountered the terrible killing of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the militants who seized her house.

I thought to myself: "None of our friends would make it."

Eventually, I viewed videos showing fire erupting from our residence. Nonetheless, later on, I couldn't believe the building was gone – not until my siblings provided images and proof.

The Aftermath

When we reached the station, I called the puppy provider. "Conflict has started," I explained. "My mother and father are likely gone. Our neighborhood has been taken over by attackers."

The ride back consisted of trying to contact friends and family while simultaneously protecting my son from the horrific images that were emerging everywhere.

The scenes from that day transcended any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son seized by several attackers. My former educator taken in the direction of the territory on a golf cart.

People shared digital recordings that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured into the territory. A woman I knew and her little boys – children I had played with – seized by armed terrorists, the terror visible on her face paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It felt endless for assistance to reach the area. Then began the terrible uncertainty for updates. As time passed, a lone picture appeared of survivors. My parents were missing.

For days and weeks, while neighbors helped forensic teams document losses, we combed the internet for traces of family members. We witnessed torture and mutilation. We never found footage of my father – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the circumstances became clearer. My senior mother and father – along with 74 others – became captives from the community. My parent was in his eighties, my mother 85. Amid the terror, one in four of our neighbors were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my mum was released from captivity. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of the militant. "Peace," she said. That image – an elemental act of humanity amid unimaginable horror – was shared globally.

Over 500 days later, my parent's physical presence were returned. He died only kilometers from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and the visual proof continue to haunt me. The two years since – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the original wound.

My family had always been campaigners for reconciliation. My parent remains, like most of my family. We recognize that hostility and vengeance don't offer the slightest solace from our suffering.

I compose these words while crying. With each day, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, rather than simpler. The young ones of my friends remain hostages with the burden of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I call remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We're used to discussing events to advocate for hostage release, while mourning remains a luxury we cannot afford – now, our efforts continues.

No part of this narrative is intended as justification for war. I continuously rejected the fighting from day one. The residents of Gaza have suffered unimaginably.

I'm appalled by political choices, yet emphasizing that the organization shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Having seen what they did that day. They abandoned the community – creating suffering for everyone through their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying the violence seems like failing the deceased. The people around me experiences unprecedented antisemitism, while my community there has struggled versus leadership for two years while experiencing betrayal again and again.

Looking over, the devastation of the territory is visible and painful. It appalls me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that many seem to grant to militant groups creates discouragement.