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It started that morning looking entirely routine. I rode together with my loved ones to welcome a new puppy. Life felt predictable – then it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I saw updates from the border. I dialed my parent, anticipating her calm response saying they were secure. No answer. My father didn't respond either. Afterward, my brother answered – his voice already told me the awful reality even as he said anything.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've seen countless individuals through news coverage whose existence had collapsed. Their expressions demonstrating they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of violence were overwhelming, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My son glanced toward me across the seat. I shifted to contact people in private. By the time we arrived our destination, I saw the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – shown in real-time by the attackers who took over her home.

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

Eventually, I viewed videos revealing blazes erupting from our house. Even then, later on, I couldn't believe the home had burned – before my family shared with me images and proof.

The Fallout

When we reached the station, I phoned the puppy provider. "A war has begun," I told them. "My mother and father are probably dead. My community fell to by militants."

The return trip involved searching for community members while simultaneously shielding my child from the terrible visuals that spread across platforms.

The images from that day transcended any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son seized by several attackers. My mathematics teacher driven toward the territory on a golf cart.

Individuals circulated social media clips that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured across the border. A woman I knew and her little boys – boys I knew well – captured by militants, the fear in her eyes stunning.

The Long Wait

It felt endless for assistance to reach our community. Then started the agonizing wait for news. Later that afternoon, a single image appeared depicting escapees. My family were not among them.

During the following period, as friends helped forensic teams document losses, we scoured digital spaces for signs of our loved ones. We saw atrocities and horrors. There was no recordings showing my parent – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Gradually, the situation grew more distinct. My senior mother and father – as well as numerous community members – became captives from their home. My parent was in his eighties, my other parent was elderly. During the violence, a quarter of our community members were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my mother left captivity. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and shook hands of her captor. "Shalom," she spoke. That moment – a basic human interaction during unimaginable horror – was broadcast globally.

Five hundred and two days following, Dad's body were recovered. He was murdered only kilometers from where we lived.

The Persistent Wound

These experiences and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our determined activism to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has worsened the primary pain.

Both my parents remained peace activists. Mom continues, as are most of my family. We understand that hostility and vengeance cannot bring any comfort from the pain.

I share these thoughts through tears. Over the months, sharing the experience grows harder, instead of improving. The children from my community continue imprisoned along with the pressure of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I term dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We're used to telling our experience to campaign for freedom, though grieving seems unaffordable we cannot afford – now, our work endures.

Not one word of this narrative represents support for conflict. I continuously rejected the fighting from day one. The people of Gaza have suffered unimaginably.

I am horrified by leadership actions, while maintaining that the attackers are not peaceful protesters. Having seen their actions during those hours. They failed the community – creating pain for all through their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying what happened seems like betraying my dead. My community here confronts unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought with the authorities throughout this period while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

Across the fields, the destruction in Gaza appears clearly and emotional. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the moral carte blanche that many seem to grant to the organizations makes me despair.