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It unfolded during that morning looking completely ordinary. I rode accompanied by my family to pick up our new dog. Everything seemed steady – then it all shifted.

Checking my device, I saw reports from the border. I dialed my mother, anticipating her cheerful voice telling me everything was fine. Nothing. My dad was also silent. Next, my sibling picked up – his voice instantly communicated the terrible truth even as he explained.

The Emerging Horror

I've seen so many people on television whose worlds had collapsed. Their eyes revealing they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Now it was me. The torrent of violence were rising, with the wreckage was still swirling.

My young one glanced toward me across the seat. I relocated to contact people alone. By the time we reached our destination, I saw the horrific murder of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the attackers who took over her home.

I recall believing: "None of our friends will survive."

At some point, I witnessed recordings depicting flames bursting through our residence. Nonetheless, later on, I denied the building was gone – before my brothers provided images and proof.

The Fallout

Getting to our destination, I contacted the kennel owner. "Conflict has started," I told them. "My parents may not survive. Our kibbutz has been taken over by terrorists."

The ride back involved searching for friends and family while simultaneously guarding my young one from the horrific images that circulated across platforms.

The scenes of that day were beyond any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son captured by armed militants. My mathematics teacher transported to Gaza using transportation.

Individuals circulated digital recordings that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured to Gaza. A woman I knew with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the terror visible on her face stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It appeared to take forever for help to arrive the kibbutz. Then started the agonizing wait for information. Later that afternoon, a single image emerged depicting escapees. My mother and father weren't there.

For days and weeks, as friends worked with authorities identify victims, we combed the internet for traces of family members. We saw atrocities and horrors. There was no footage of my father – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Over time, the circumstances emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – together with dozens more – became captives from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, a quarter of our community members were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent emerged from confinement. Before departing, she turned and shook hands of the guard. "Shalom," she said. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity amid unimaginable horror – was shared globally.

Five hundred and two days later, my parent's physical presence came back. He was killed just two miles from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and their documentation continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts to save hostages, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has compounded the primary pain.

My mother and father were lifelong advocates for peace. Mom continues, as are most of my family. We recognize that animosity and retaliation cannot bring the slightest solace from this tragedy.

I write this amid sorrow. With each day, discussing these events becomes more difficult, rather than simpler. The children belonging to companions remain hostages along with the pressure of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I describe remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We've become accustomed sharing our story to campaign for the captives, despite sorrow feels like privilege we lack – and two years later, our work continues.

Not one word of this account serves as justification for war. I have consistently opposed hostilities since it started. The population of Gaza endured tragedy unimaginably.

I'm shocked by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the attackers shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Having seen their atrocities that day. They betrayed their own people – causing tragedy on both sides through their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth among individuals justifying the violence feels like dishonoring the lost. My community here experiences growing prejudice, and our people back home has struggled against its government for two years while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

From the border, the devastation across the frontier can be seen and painful. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that many seem to grant to the attackers makes me despair.