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It started during that morning appearing completely ordinary. I journeyed together with my loved ones to welcome a new puppy. The world appeared secure – before it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I saw news concerning the frontier. I called my parent, hoping for her reassuring tone explaining she was safe. No answer. My father didn't respond either. Afterward, I reached my brother – his voice already told me the terrible truth before he said anything.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've observed numerous faces in media reports whose lives were torn apart. Their gaze revealing they didn't understand their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of violence were building, and the debris hadn't settled.

My son looked at me over his laptop. I shifted to contact people in private. When we got to the station, I encountered the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the terrorists who took over her house.

I recall believing: "None of our friends could live through this."

Eventually, I saw footage showing fire erupting from our house. Despite this, in the following days, I refused to accept the home had burned – until my siblings provided images and proof.

The Consequences

Getting to our destination, I called the dog breeder. "Conflict has begun," I told them. "My parents are likely gone. Our kibbutz was captured by terrorists."

The return trip consisted of attempting to reach community members and at the same time shielding my child from the horrific images that spread everywhere.

The footage of that day transcended anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son seized by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me taken in the direction of the border using transportation.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured into the territory. My friend's daughter and her little boys – kids I recently saw – captured by militants, the terror apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It felt to take forever for the military to come our community. Then began the agonizing wait for updates. As time passed, a lone picture appeared of survivors. My family weren't there.

For days and weeks, as friends helped forensic teams locate the missing, we scoured the internet for evidence of our loved ones. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. There was no recordings showing my parent – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Over time, the reality became clearer. My senior mother and father – as well as dozens more – were taken hostage from their home. My father was 83, my other parent was elderly. During the violence, 25 percent of the residents were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my mother left captivity. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of the guard. "Hello," she uttered. That moment – an elemental act of humanity within indescribable tragedy – was transmitted everywhere.

Over 500 days following, my parent's physical presence came back. He was murdered a short distance from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the initial trauma.

Both my parents had always been advocates for peace. My parent remains, like most of my family. We know that hate and revenge don't offer even momentary relief from our suffering.

I share these thoughts while crying. Over the months, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, not easier. The young ones of my friends remain hostages along with the pressure of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I describe dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed discussing events to advocate for hostage release, while mourning feels like privilege we lack – after 24 months, our efforts endures.

No part of this narrative is intended as support for conflict. I continuously rejected the fighting from day one. The population in the territory have suffered terribly.

I'm appalled by political choices, while maintaining that the militants are not peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed their actions during those hours. They failed their own people – ensuring suffering for everyone due to their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth with people supporting what happened seems like betraying my dead. The people around me faces growing prejudice, while my community there has fought against its government consistently while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

Looking over, the ruin of the territory appears clearly and visceral. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the moral carte blanche that numerous people appear to offer to the attackers causes hopelessness.