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It started on a morning that seemed entirely routine. I rode together with my loved ones to collect a new puppy. The world appeared steady – until reality shattered.

Checking my device, I saw news from the border. I tried reaching my mum, expecting her calm response telling me everything was fine. Nothing. My father couldn't be reached. Then, I reached my brother – his tone instantly communicated the awful reality prior to he said anything.

The Unfolding Horror

I've witnessed countless individuals through news coverage whose lives had collapsed. Their eyes revealing they hadn't yet processed their loss. Now it was me. The torrent of tragedy were overwhelming, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My young one glanced toward me across the seat. I relocated to reach out in private. When we got to the station, I saw the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the attackers who captured her house.

I recall believing: "None of our family could live through this."

Later, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes bursting through our family home. Even then, for days afterward, I denied the house was destroyed – before my family shared with me visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

Getting to the city, I phoned the puppy provider. "A war has erupted," I said. "My parents are likely gone. Our neighborhood fell to by terrorists."

The return trip consisted of searching for loved ones while simultaneously shielding my child from the terrible visuals that were emerging across platforms.

The images of that day were beyond all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son captured by armed militants. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of Gaza using transportation.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured into the territory. A young mother accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the horror apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It appeared interminable for the military to come the kibbutz. Then started the agonizing wait for updates. As time passed, a lone picture appeared showing those who made it. My mother and father weren't there.

Over many days, as friends worked with authorities document losses, we combed digital spaces for signs of our loved ones. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no clue about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the circumstances grew more distinct. My elderly parents – as well as dozens more – became captives from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. In the chaos, one in four of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my parent was released from confinement. As she left, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of the guard. "Shalom," she spoke. That moment – a basic human interaction amid indescribable tragedy – was transmitted everywhere.

More than sixteen months later, Dad's body came back. He was killed only kilometers from our home.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the original wound.

My mother and father had always been advocates for peace. My mother still is, like other loved ones. We understand that hostility and vengeance don't offer even momentary relief from this tragedy.

I write this while crying. With each day, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The children belonging to companions remain hostages along with the pressure of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I describe focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We're used to telling our experience to fight for hostage release, while mourning remains a luxury we don't have – now, our work endures.

Nothing of this account is intended as support for conflict. I've always been against hostilities from day one. The residents of Gaza have suffered terribly.

I'm shocked by political choices, yet emphasizing that the attackers cannot be considered innocent activists. Because I know what they did on October 7th. They failed the population – creating tragedy on both sides due to their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth among individuals justifying the attackers' actions appears as failing the deceased. The people around me confronts growing prejudice, while my community there has campaigned versus leadership consistently while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

From the border, the devastation across the frontier appears clearly and painful. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that various individuals seem to grant to the organizations creates discouragement.