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It unfolded that morning appearing entirely routine. I was traveling accompanied by my family to welcome our new dog. Everything seemed secure – until it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I discovered reports from the border. I tried reaching my parent, expecting her cheerful voice telling me they were secure. Silence. My parent didn't respond either. Next, I reached my brother – his tone already told me the terrible truth even as he said anything.

The Unfolding Horror

I've observed so many people in media reports whose lives had collapsed. Their gaze revealing they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The torrent of tragedy were rising, with the wreckage was still swirling.

My child looked at me from his screen. I moved to contact people alone. When we arrived our destination, I encountered the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the attackers who took over her house.

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

Eventually, I viewed videos revealing blazes erupting from our house. Despite this, later on, I refused to accept the building was gone – before my siblings sent me images and proof.

The Aftermath

Getting to the city, I contacted the puppy provider. "Hostilities has begun," I said. "My family may not survive. My community was captured by attackers."

The ride back was spent attempting to reach community members and at the same time protecting my son from the awful footage that circulated across platforms.

The footage of that day were beyond anything we could imagine. A child from our community captured by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me driven toward the border on a golf cart.

Friends sent social media clips that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured across the border. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – captured by militants, the fear apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It seemed endless for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then started the terrible uncertainty for news. As time passed, a lone picture emerged depicting escapees. My family weren't there.

Over many days, as friends helped forensic teams identify victims, we scoured the internet for signs of our loved ones. We saw brutality and violence. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Emerging Picture

Over time, the situation grew more distinct. My senior mother and father – together with 74 others – became captives from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. In the chaos, 25 percent of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent was released from confinement. Before departing, she looked back and offered a handshake of her captor. "Shalom," she said. That gesture – a basic human interaction within unspeakable violence – was broadcast worldwide.

Five hundred and two days later, Dad's body were returned. He was killed only kilometers from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and their documentation continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to save hostages, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has worsened the original wound.

My mother and father were lifelong peace activists. Mom continues, like most of my family. We understand that hostility and vengeance won't provide even momentary relief from this tragedy.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. Over the months, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The children from my community continue imprisoned and the weight of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I describe remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed discussing events to fight for hostage release, despite sorrow seems unaffordable we lack – now, our campaign continues.

Nothing of this narrative represents support for conflict. I continuously rejected this conflict since it started. The people of Gaza experienced pain beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by political choices, but I also insist that the organization are not peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed what they did that day. They abandoned the community – causing pain for all because of their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Sharing my story with those who defend the attackers' actions feels like betraying my dead. The people around me faces rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned with the authorities consistently facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

Across the fields, the destruction of the territory appears clearly and painful. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that numerous people seem willing to provide to the attackers makes me despair.