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It began during that morning looking entirely routine. I was traveling together with my loved ones to welcome a new puppy. Everything seemed secure – then it all shifted.

Checking my device, I discovered news about the border region. I tried reaching my mother, hoping for her reassuring tone telling me everything was fine. Silence. My dad couldn't be reached. Next, I reached my brother – his voice instantly communicated the awful reality prior to he explained.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've observed countless individuals in media reports whose worlds had collapsed. Their expressions showing they hadn't yet processed their loss. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of tragedy were rising, amid the destruction was still swirling.

My son looked at me over his laptop. I shifted to reach out in private. By the time we got to our destination, I encountered the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the terrorists who took over her home.

I remember thinking: "Not a single of our family could live through this."

At some point, I witnessed recordings showing fire bursting through our house. Even then, for days afterward, I refused to accept the house was destroyed – before my siblings provided visual confirmation.

The Consequences

When we reached the station, I phoned the puppy provider. "Hostilities has erupted," I said. "My mother and father may not survive. Our kibbutz fell to by attackers."

The ride back was spent attempting to reach loved ones and at the same time shielding my child from the terrible visuals that were emerging everywhere.

The footage from that day transcended any possible expectation. A child from our community seized by armed militants. My former educator transported to the border in a vehicle.

Friends sent Telegram videos that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted across the border. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the fear apparent in her expression stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It seemed endless for the military to come the kibbutz. Then began the agonizing wait for information. In the evening, a lone picture circulated depicting escapees. My family were missing.

During the following period, while neighbors helped forensic teams identify victims, we searched digital spaces for traces of family members. We saw atrocities and horrors. We never found recordings showing my parent – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the situation grew more distinct. My senior mother and father – together with numerous community members – became captives from their home. My father was 83, my mother 85. During the violence, a quarter of our community members were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my mother left imprisonment. As she left, she turned and grasped the hand of her captor. "Hello," she uttered. That image – a basic human interaction amid unimaginable horror – was broadcast globally.

Over 500 days afterward, my parent's physical presence were returned. He was murdered just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and their documentation still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the initial trauma.

My family remained advocates for peace. My mother still is, like most of my family. We understand that hostility and vengeance don't offer even momentary relief from our suffering.

I write this amid sorrow. As time passes, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The kids from my community remain hostages and the weight of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I describe dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We're used to telling our experience to advocate for the captives, though grieving feels like privilege we don't have – now, our campaign endures.

Nothing of this account is intended as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed hostilities from day one. The residents of Gaza experienced pain terribly.

I'm appalled by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the attackers cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Because I know what they did on October 7th. They betrayed the community – creating tragedy on both sides through their violent beliefs.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying the attackers' actions appears as betraying my dead. My community here experiences unprecedented antisemitism, while my community there has struggled with the authorities consistently and been betrayed again and again.

Looking over, the destruction of the territory appears clearly and visceral. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that numerous people seem to grant to militant groups creates discouragement.