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It started during that morning appearing completely ordinary. I rode accompanied by my family to pick up our new dog. The world appeared predictable – then it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered reports concerning the frontier. I dialed my mum, hoping for her reassuring tone telling me everything was fine. Nothing. My dad couldn't be reached. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his speech already told me the devastating news prior to he spoke.

The Developing Nightmare

I've observed numerous faces in media reports whose existence were destroyed. Their gaze demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their loss. Now it was me. The deluge of horror were building, with the wreckage was still swirling.

My child glanced toward me from his screen. I shifted to make calls separately. Once we got to the station, I encountered the terrible killing of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the terrorists who seized her home.

I recall believing: "Not a single of our loved ones will survive."

At some point, I witnessed recordings showing fire bursting through our family home. Even then, in the following days, I denied the home had burned – before my siblings shared with me images and proof.

The Aftermath

Getting to the city, I called the kennel owner. "Hostilities has started," I said. "My parents are likely gone. Our neighborhood has been taken over by terrorists."

The journey home consisted of searching for loved ones and at the same time protecting my son from the awful footage that circulated everywhere.

The scenes during those hours transcended all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son captured by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher transported to the border in a vehicle.

People shared digital recordings that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend also taken across the border. A woman I knew with her two small sons – boys I knew well – seized by militants, the horror visible on her face devastating.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt to take forever for the military to come our community. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for news. Later that afternoon, a single image emerged showing those who made it. My mother and father were missing.

During the following period, as friends helped forensic teams locate the missing, we searched the internet for traces of those missing. We saw atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Gradually, the reality emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – along with numerous community members – became captives from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, 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 was released from captivity. Prior to leaving, she turned and shook hands of her captor. "Hello," she said. That image – a simple human connection during unspeakable violence – was broadcast globally.

More than sixteen months afterward, my parent's physical presence were returned. He died just two miles from where we lived.

The Persistent Wound

These events and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the initial trauma.

My family were lifelong peace activists. Mom continues, like other loved ones. We know that hostility and vengeance won't provide even momentary relief from the pain.

I compose these words through tears. With each day, discussing these events grows harder, rather than simpler. The children of my friends continue imprisoned and the weight of what followed remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I term dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed discussing events to fight for the captives, though grieving seems unaffordable we lack – and two years later, our efforts persists.

Nothing of this story is intended as support for conflict. I've always been against the fighting from the beginning. The people of Gaza experienced pain unimaginably.

I'm shocked by government decisions, but I also insist that the militants are not innocent activists. Since I witnessed their actions on October 7th. They abandoned the community – ensuring pain for all due to their violent beliefs.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth with people supporting what happened feels like dishonoring the lost. My community here confronts rising hostility, while my community there has fought with the authorities throughout this period facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

Across the fields, the devastation of the territory appears clearly and emotional. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that various individuals seem to grant to militant groups creates discouragement.