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It started during that morning looking completely ordinary. I rode together with my loved ones to welcome a furry companion. The world appeared predictable – until reality shattered.

Glancing at my screen, I saw updates concerning the frontier. I tried reaching my parent, expecting her reassuring tone telling me they were secure. No answer. My parent didn't respond either. Afterward, I reached my brother – his tone already told me the terrible truth prior to he explained.

The Developing Nightmare

I've seen numerous faces on television whose existence were destroyed. Their expressions revealing they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of violence were building, with the wreckage remained chaotic.

My young one looked at me across the seat. I moved to reach out in private. When we got to the station, I would witness the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the terrorists who seized her home.

I thought to myself: "Not a single of our friends will survive."

Later, I viewed videos showing fire erupting from our residence. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – until my family shared with me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at the city, I contacted the kennel owner. "A war has started," I told them. "My parents are likely gone. Our kibbutz fell to by attackers."

The ride back consisted of trying to contact loved ones while also guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that were emerging across platforms.

The footage from that day exceeded anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son seized by armed militants. Someone who taught me transported to the territory in a vehicle.

People shared Telegram videos that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted to Gaza. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – boys I knew well – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the fear in her eyes paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It appeared to take forever for assistance to reach our community. Then started the painful anticipation for information. As time passed, a lone picture emerged of survivors. My family weren't there.

Over many days, as community members assisted investigators identify victims, we combed the internet for evidence of our loved ones. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. There was no footage of my father – no evidence about his final moments.

The Developing Reality

Gradually, the reality grew more distinct. My elderly parents – together with dozens more – were taken hostage from their home. My father was 83, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, one in four of our community members were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my mum emerged from captivity. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and shook hands of the guard. "Peace," she spoke. That image – a simple human connection during unimaginable horror – was broadcast everywhere.

More than sixteen months afterward, Dad's body came back. He was murdered a short distance from our home.

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 ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has intensified the original wound.

My family were lifelong peace activists. My mother still is, like other loved ones. We understand that hostility and vengeance don't offer any comfort from the pain.

I compose these words amid sorrow. Over the months, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The young ones from my community remain hostages along with the pressure of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I describe remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We typically sharing our story to advocate for the captives, though grieving seems unaffordable we cannot afford – after 24 months, our campaign persists.

No part of this account serves as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed the fighting from the beginning. The population of Gaza experienced pain beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by government decisions, but I also insist that the attackers are not innocent activists. Since I witnessed their actions on October 7th. They abandoned the community – creating pain for all because of their violent beliefs.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story with those who defend the violence feels like betraying my dead. My community here faces rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought versus leadership throughout this period and been betrayed again and again.

Across the fields, the ruin in Gaza can be seen and emotional. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that numerous people appear to offer to militant groups makes me despair.