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It started that morning appearing perfectly normal. I rode with my husband and son to collect a new puppy. Life felt secure – then it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I saw updates from the border. I tried reaching my mum, expecting her reassuring tone telling me she was safe. Nothing. My dad didn't respond either. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his tone already told me the awful reality before he said anything.

The Developing Nightmare

I've witnessed numerous faces through news coverage whose existence were torn apart. Their gaze revealing they hadn't yet processed their loss. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of horror were rising, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My child watched me across the seat. I moved to reach out in private. By the time we arrived the city, I would witness the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the terrorists who took over her house.

I recall believing: "Not a single of our family will survive."

Later, I viewed videos depicting flames erupting from our family home. Even then, for days afterward, I denied the house was destroyed – not until my brothers shared with me visual confirmation.

The Consequences

Getting to the city, I phoned the kennel owner. "Conflict has begun," I said. "My family may not survive. Our kibbutz fell to by militants."

The journey home was spent trying to contact community members while also protecting my son from the horrific images that circulated through networks.

The images from that day exceeded any possible expectation. A child from our community captured by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of the territory using transportation.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted into the territory. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – children I had played with – captured by attackers, the terror apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt interminable for assistance to reach the area. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for updates. Later that afternoon, a single image appeared of survivors. My parents were missing.

Over many days, as community members helped forensic teams locate the missing, we searched digital spaces for evidence of family members. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Emerging Picture

Eventually, the circumstances became clearer. My senior mother and father – together with dozens more – were taken hostage from the community. My father was 83, my mother 85. Amid the terror, a quarter of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent was released from imprisonment. Before departing, she turned and shook hands of her captor. "Peace," she said. That moment – a simple human connection during unimaginable horror – was broadcast everywhere.

Five hundred and two days later, Dad's body were recovered. He was murdered a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and the recorded evidence remain with me. The two years since – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the destruction across the border – has worsened the initial trauma.

Both my parents were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. My parent remains, similar to other loved ones. We recognize that animosity and retaliation don't offer any comfort from this tragedy.

I share these thoughts through tears. As time passes, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, not easier. The young ones belonging to companions are still captive along with the pressure of the aftermath feels heavy.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I describe remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We typically sharing our story to advocate for the captives, though grieving feels like privilege we cannot afford – and two years later, our campaign continues.

Not one word of this account is intended as justification for war. I've always been against this conflict from day one. The residents across the border experienced pain terribly.

I'm appalled by leadership actions, but I also insist that the organization cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed their actions that day. They failed their own people – creating suffering for everyone because of their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story with people supporting the violence appears as betraying my dead. My community here faces rising hostility, and our people back home has campaigned against its government throughout this period and been betrayed again and again.

Looking over, the devastation in Gaza can be seen and emotional. It shocks me. At the same time, the complete justification that various individuals appear to offer to militant groups causes hopelessness.