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It started on a morning appearing perfectly normal. I rode with my husband and son to welcome a new puppy. The world appeared secure – before everything changed.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered reports about the border region. I called my mother, expecting her calm response telling me they were secure. No answer. My dad couldn't be reached. Then, my sibling picked up – his speech instantly communicated the awful reality even as he spoke.

The Emerging Horror

I've observed countless individuals on television whose existence were destroyed. Their expressions revealing they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The torrent of tragedy were building, and the debris hadn't settled.

My son watched me across the seat. I moved to contact people separately. Once we got to our destination, I encountered the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the attackers who captured her residence.

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

At some point, I saw footage revealing blazes erupting from our house. Despite this, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the home had burned – not until my siblings provided visual confirmation.

The Consequences

Upon arriving at the station, I called the kennel owner. "A war has erupted," I told them. "My mother and father are likely gone. My community has been taken over by attackers."

The ride back consisted of searching for friends and family and at the same time protecting my son from the awful footage that were emerging everywhere.

The scenes from that day transcended any possible expectation. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by armed militants. My mathematics teacher driven toward the territory using transportation.

Individuals circulated digital recordings that defied reality. A senior community member likewise abducted to Gaza. My friend's daughter and her little boys – kids I recently saw – seized by attackers, the terror visible on her face devastating.

The Agonizing Delay

It appeared endless for help to arrive our community. Then started the terrible uncertainty for updates. In the evening, a lone picture circulated depicting escapees. My mother and father were missing.

For days and weeks, while neighbors helped forensic teams document losses, we scoured the internet for signs of family members. We encountered brutality and violence. There was no footage of my father – no evidence about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Over time, the situation became clearer. My elderly parents – together with dozens more – became captives from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. During the violence, a quarter of our community members were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mother emerged from captivity. Prior to leaving, she turned and offered a handshake of her captor. "Shalom," she spoke. That moment – an elemental act of humanity amid unspeakable violence – was shared worldwide.

More than sixteen months later, my parent's physical presence came back. He died only kilometers from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These experiences and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. The two years since – our determined activism for the captives, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has intensified the initial trauma.

My family remained advocates for peace. My parent remains, similar to other loved ones. We recognize that animosity and retaliation cannot bring even momentary relief from this tragedy.

I write this while crying. With each day, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, not easier. The kids belonging to companions remain hostages with the burden of what followed feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I term dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We're used to telling our experience to campaign for freedom, while mourning seems unaffordable we cannot afford – and two years later, our campaign continues.

No part of this account is intended as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed the fighting from the beginning. The people of Gaza endured tragedy terribly.

I am horrified by leadership actions, but I also insist that the militants cannot be considered innocent activists. Having seen what they did that day. They failed their own people – causing tragedy on both sides due to their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Sharing my story among individuals justifying the violence feels like dishonoring the lost. My community here confronts rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled against its government throughout this period and been betrayed multiple times.

Looking over, the destruction in Gaza appears clearly and visceral. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the moral carte blanche that various individuals seem to grant to the organizations makes me despair.