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It began on a morning that seemed entirely routine. I was traveling with my husband and son to welcome our new dog. The world appeared predictable – then it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I saw reports about the border region. I called my mum, hoping for her calm response saying she was safe. No answer. My parent was also silent. Next, I reached my brother – his voice immediately revealed the terrible truth prior to he explained.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've observed so many people in media reports whose worlds were torn apart. Their eyes showing they hadn't yet processed their loss. Then it became our turn. The torrent of horror were building, and the debris hadn't settled.

My young one watched me across the seat. I shifted to contact people in private. By the time we reached our destination, I encountered the brutal execution of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the attackers who captured her residence.

I remember thinking: "Not one of our family would make it."

At some point, I viewed videos showing fire bursting through our house. Even then, in the following days, I refused to accept the building was gone – not until my family provided visual confirmation.

The Consequences

Upon arriving at the city, I contacted the puppy provider. "Hostilities has started," I told them. "My parents may not survive. My community was captured by militants."

The return trip consisted of trying to contact community members while also guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that circulated through networks.

The footage of that day were beyond anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son taken by multiple terrorists. My former educator transported to Gaza on a golf cart.

People shared Telegram videos that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion also taken across the border. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – seized by armed terrorists, the fear visible on her face paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It seemed endless for the military to come the kibbutz. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for updates. Later that afternoon, a lone picture appeared of survivors. My mother and father were not among them.

During the following period, as community members assisted investigators locate the missing, we searched the internet for evidence of our loved ones. We saw brutality and violence. There was no footage of my father – no indication regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Over time, the situation became clearer. My aged family – together with 74 others – became captives from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. During the violence, one in four of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum left imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she turned and grasped the hand of the militant. "Shalom," she uttered. That moment – a basic human interaction during unimaginable horror – was shared worldwide.

More than sixteen months afterward, Dad's body were returned. He died only kilometers from the kibbutz.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and their documentation still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign for the captives, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the initial trauma.

My family were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, as are other loved ones. We know that hostility and vengeance don't offer any comfort from our suffering.

I compose these words amid sorrow. As time passes, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, rather than simpler. The young ones belonging to companions remain hostages with the burden of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I describe dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We typically telling our experience to advocate for the captives, though grieving seems unaffordable we cannot afford – and two years later, our efforts continues.

No part of this story is intended as justification for war. I have consistently opposed the fighting from day one. The population of Gaza have suffered beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by political choices, but I also insist that the organization cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Having seen what they did during those hours. They abandoned the population – ensuring suffering for everyone due to their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story with those who defend the attackers' actions appears as dishonoring the lost. My local circle faces unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned with the authorities for two years while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

Looking over, the destruction of the territory can be seen and visceral. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that many seem to grant to the attackers creates discouragement.