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It unfolded that morning looking completely ordinary. I journeyed accompanied by my family to collect a new puppy. The world appeared secure – then everything changed.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered updates about the border region. I tried reaching my mum, expecting her calm response saying everything was fine. Nothing. My dad was also silent. Next, my brother answered – his voice instantly communicated the awful reality before he said anything.

The Emerging Horror

I've seen so many people on television whose lives were destroyed. Their gaze revealing they didn't understand their loss. Now it was me. The deluge of tragedy were building, and the debris was still swirling.

My child looked at me across the seat. I moved to make calls separately. By the time we reached our destination, I saw the terrible killing of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the terrorists who took over her home.

I remember thinking: "Not a single of our friends will survive."

Eventually, I witnessed recordings depicting flames consuming our house. Despite this, for days afterward, I refused to accept the building was gone – before my siblings sent me images and proof.

The Aftermath

Getting to the city, I phoned the puppy provider. "A war has erupted," I told them. "My parents are likely gone. My community has been taken over by attackers."

The ride back consisted of attempting to reach loved ones while also protecting my son from the terrible visuals that circulated through networks.

The images of that day transcended any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son seized by multiple terrorists. My former educator driven toward the territory on a golf cart.

Individuals circulated social media clips that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured to Gaza. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – children I had played with – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the terror apparent in her expression devastating.

The Painful Period

It felt endless for the military to come the area. Then started the agonizing wait for news. As time passed, a single image emerged depicting escapees. My mother and father weren't there.

For days and weeks, as friends worked with authorities document losses, we searched the internet for signs of our loved ones. We encountered atrocities and horrors. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no evidence about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Eventually, the circumstances became clearer. My senior mother and father – as well as dozens more – became captives from their home. My father was 83, Mom was 85. In the chaos, one in four of our community members were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother was released from confinement. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and shook hands of her captor. "Hello," she spoke. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity within unimaginable horror – was broadcast everywhere.

Five hundred and two days following, my parent's physical presence came back. He was murdered only kilometers from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts to save hostages, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the initial trauma.

Both my parents were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, similar to most of my family. We know that hostility and vengeance don't offer the slightest solace from our suffering.

I compose these words while crying. Over the months, sharing the experience grows harder, rather than simpler. The children of my friends remain hostages along with the pressure of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I describe focusing on the trauma "immersed in suffering". We've become accustomed telling our experience to campaign for hostage release, though grieving seems unaffordable we cannot afford – after 24 months, our work continues.

No part of this account serves as justification for war. I have consistently opposed the fighting from the beginning. The population of Gaza have suffered beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by leadership actions, while maintaining that the organization are not innocent activists. Because I know their atrocities that day. They abandoned their own people – creating tragedy on both sides because of their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth with those who defend the violence seems like dishonoring the lost. The people around me experiences unprecedented antisemitism, and our people back home has campaigned with the authorities throughout this period facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

Across the fields, the devastation across the frontier is visible and visceral. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that numerous people appear to offer to militant groups makes me despair.