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It began during that morning that seemed entirely routine. I rode accompanied by my family to welcome a furry companion. Everything seemed secure – then reality shattered.

Opening my phone, I noticed updates about the border region. I tried reaching my mother, anticipating her cheerful voice explaining she was safe. Silence. My dad couldn't be reached. Then, I reached my brother – his tone immediately revealed the terrible truth even as he spoke.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've seen numerous faces through news coverage whose lives had collapsed. Their expressions showing they couldn't comprehend their loss. Then it became our turn. The torrent of violence were rising, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My young one looked at me across the seat. I relocated to make calls in private. By the time we reached our destination, I encountered the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the attackers who seized her home.

I thought to myself: "None of our loved ones could live through this."

At some point, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes consuming our family home. Even then, in the following days, I refused to accept the building was gone – until my siblings provided photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

When we reached the station, I contacted the kennel owner. "A war has started," I told them. "My mother and father are likely gone. Our kibbutz fell to by terrorists."

The journey home involved attempting to reach friends and family while simultaneously guarding my young one from the awful footage that spread across platforms.

The footage of that day were beyond all comprehension. A child from our community seized by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of the border on a golf cart.

Friends sent digital recordings that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured to Gaza. My friend's daughter and her little boys – boys I knew well – captured by armed terrorists, the fear in her eyes paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It appeared endless for assistance to reach our community. Then commenced the painful anticipation for information. Later that afternoon, a single image appeared showing those who made it. My family weren't there.

Over many days, as community members helped forensic teams document losses, we searched online platforms for traces of those missing. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. There was no recordings showing my parent – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Over time, the situation grew more distinct. My elderly parents – together with numerous community members – were taken hostage from the community. My parent was in his eighties, my other parent was elderly. During the violence, a quarter of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my mum left imprisonment. Before departing, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of her captor. "Peace," she uttered. That moment – a basic human interaction amid unimaginable horror – was shared globally.

Over 500 days afterward, my parent's physical presence came back. He died only kilometers from our home.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and their documentation remain with me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the destruction across the border – has worsened the original wound.

My mother and father were lifelong advocates for peace. My mother still is, as are most of my family. We understand that hostility and vengeance don't offer even momentary relief from this tragedy.

I compose these words while crying. Over the months, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, not easier. The children from my community remain hostages along with the pressure of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I term dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We're used to discussing events to campaign for freedom, though grieving remains a luxury we don't have – after 24 months, our work endures.

No part of this narrative is intended as support for conflict. I have consistently opposed this conflict since it started. The people of Gaza experienced pain beyond imagination.

I am horrified by leadership actions, but I also insist that the organization cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Having seen their atrocities on October 7th. They failed their own people – causing suffering for everyone due to their violent beliefs.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story among individuals justifying the violence seems like failing the deceased. My local circle faces growing prejudice, and our people back home has campaigned with the authorities consistently and been betrayed multiple times.

Across the fields, the destruction in Gaza appears clearly and visceral. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the moral carte blanche that many seem to grant to the attackers causes hopelessness.