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It unfolded that morning appearing entirely routine. I was traveling with my husband and son to pick up a furry companion. The world appeared secure – then it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I saw news concerning the frontier. I called my mum, expecting her cheerful voice telling me they were secure. No answer. My father couldn't be reached. Next, my sibling picked up – his tone immediately revealed the terrible truth before he said anything.

The Emerging Horror

I've witnessed countless individuals through news coverage whose worlds were destroyed. Their gaze demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their loss. Now it was me. The floodwaters of horror were rising, with the wreckage was still swirling.

My child watched me over his laptop. I shifted to contact people alone. Once we reached the station, I would witness the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the militants who captured her house.

I remember thinking: "None of our loved ones would make it."

Later, I viewed videos depicting flames consuming our residence. Even then, later on, I denied the home had burned – not until my brothers shared with me images and proof.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at the station, I phoned the kennel owner. "Conflict has started," I told them. "My parents are likely gone. Our kibbutz has been taken over by militants."

The journey home was spent searching for loved ones and at the same time guarding my young one from the awful footage that were emerging across platforms.

The footage of that day transcended all comprehension. A child from our community captured by armed militants. My former educator taken in the direction of the territory in a vehicle.

Friends sent digital recordings that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured to Gaza. A young mother and her little boys – boys I knew well – seized by militants, the horror visible on her face paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt to take forever for help to arrive the area. Then started the terrible uncertainty for news. In the evening, a single image emerged of survivors. My mother and father were missing.

Over many days, as community members helped forensic teams identify victims, we scoured the internet for signs of those missing. We saw atrocities and horrors. There was no footage of my father – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Gradually, the situation grew more distinct. My aged family – along with dozens more – became captives from their home. My parent was in his eighties, my mother 85. Amid the terror, 25 percent of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

Seventeen days later, my parent emerged from confinement. Before departing, she looked back and offered a handshake of the guard. "Peace," she said. That gesture – a simple human connection during unspeakable violence – was shared globally.

More than sixteen months following, Dad's body came back. He was murdered only kilometers from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These experiences and their documentation remain with me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts to save hostages, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has compounded the initial trauma.

My family remained advocates for peace. Mom continues, like many relatives. We understand that hate and revenge cannot bring even momentary relief from the pain.

I compose these words while crying. As time passes, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The children of my friends are still captive along with the pressure of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I describe focusing on the trauma "immersed in suffering". We're used to sharing our story to advocate for the captives, despite sorrow feels like privilege we don't have – and two years later, our work endures.

Not one word of this story represents endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected this conflict since it started. The people across the border experienced pain terribly.

I'm appalled by leadership actions, but I also insist that the militants cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Having seen what they did on October 7th. They betrayed the population – causing pain for all due to their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story among individuals justifying the violence seems like failing the deceased. My local circle faces rising hostility, while my community there has fought versus leadership for two years and been betrayed multiple times.

From the border, the ruin in Gaza can be seen and emotional. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the moral carte blanche that many seem to grant to the attackers creates discouragement.