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It began during that morning looking perfectly normal. I journeyed together with my loved ones to pick up a furry companion. Life felt secure – until it all shifted.

Checking my device, I noticed updates about the border region. I dialed my parent, hoping for her calm response saying she was safe. Silence. My dad was also silent. Then, my sibling picked up – his tone immediately revealed the devastating news even as he spoke.

The Developing Tragedy

I've witnessed numerous faces in media reports whose lives were destroyed. Their gaze revealing they didn't understand their loss. Then it became our turn. The torrent of horror were overwhelming, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My son glanced toward me over his laptop. I moved to make calls in private. By the time we reached our destination, I saw the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the attackers who seized her residence.

I recall believing: "Not a single of our friends would make it."

At some point, I saw footage revealing blazes erupting from our residence. Despite this, in the following days, I couldn't believe the building was gone – until my family provided images and proof.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at our destination, I contacted the dog breeder. "Hostilities has erupted," I explained. "My mother and father are probably dead. Our neighborhood fell to by terrorists."

The journey home consisted of attempting to reach loved ones while simultaneously protecting my son from the terrible visuals that spread through networks.

The scenes from that day were beyond all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son captured by several attackers. My former educator driven toward Gaza on a golf cart.

People shared digital recordings that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion also taken into the territory. A woman I knew accompanied by her children – children I had played with – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the fear visible on her face paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It felt endless for help to arrive our community. Then began the terrible uncertainty for updates. Later that afternoon, a single image emerged depicting escapees. My parents were not among them.

Over many days, as community members assisted investigators document losses, we combed online platforms for evidence of our loved ones. We saw atrocities and horrors. There was no recordings showing my parent – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the reality grew more distinct. My elderly parents – as well as 74 others – were abducted from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, my mother 85. In the chaos, a quarter of our community members were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent emerged from confinement. Prior to leaving, she turned and shook hands of the guard. "Peace," she spoke. That gesture – a basic human interaction amid indescribable tragedy – was transmitted globally.

Over 500 days following, my parent's physical presence were recovered. He died only kilometers from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and the visual proof continue to haunt me. The two years since – our urgent efforts to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the initial trauma.

Both my parents had always been advocates for peace. My mother still is, similar to many relatives. We understand that hostility and vengeance don't offer even momentary relief from the pain.

I share these thoughts while crying. Over the months, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, not easier. The young ones belonging to companions are still captive along with the pressure of what followed remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I term dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We typically telling our experience to advocate for the captives, while mourning feels like privilege we cannot afford – now, our efforts continues.

Not one word of this account is intended as support for conflict. I've always been against hostilities since it started. The people of Gaza have suffered terribly.

I am horrified by political choices, while maintaining that the attackers shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed their atrocities on October 7th. They failed the community – creating tragedy on both sides because of their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story among individuals justifying the attackers' actions feels like betraying my dead. My local circle confronts unprecedented antisemitism, while my community there has struggled against its government for two years facing repeated disappointment multiple times.

Looking over, the devastation in Gaza is visible and visceral. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that many seem to grant to the attackers creates discouragement.