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It began that morning looking perfectly normal. I was traveling with my husband and son to pick up a new puppy. Life felt secure – until it all shifted.

Checking my device, I saw news from the border. I called my mother, anticipating her calm response saying she was safe. Nothing. My father was also silent. Afterward, I reached my brother – his speech already told me the devastating news before he explained.

The Developing Tragedy

I've observed countless individuals in media reports whose worlds were torn apart. Their expressions demonstrating they didn't understand their loss. Now it was me. The deluge of horror were building, and the debris was still swirling.

My child watched me across the seat. I relocated to contact people in private. By the time we got to the station, I encountered the brutal execution of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the attackers who took over her home.

I remember thinking: "None of our family could live through this."

At some point, I viewed videos revealing blazes bursting through our house. Despite this, in the following days, I denied the home had burned – before my family shared with me visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

When we reached the station, I called the dog breeder. "Conflict has erupted," I told them. "My parents may not survive. Our kibbutz fell to by attackers."

The return trip involved trying to contact 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 anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son captured by armed militants. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of the territory in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated social media clips appearing unbelievable. A senior community member likewise abducted across the border. My friend's daughter and her little boys – children I had played with – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the horror apparent in her expression devastating.

The Painful Period

It seemed to take forever for help to arrive the area. Then commenced the painful anticipation for information. As time passed, a lone picture circulated of survivors. My mother and father were missing.

Over many days, while neighbors helped forensic teams identify victims, we searched digital spaces for evidence of our loved ones. We witnessed torture and mutilation. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no evidence about his final moments.

The Developing Reality

Gradually, the circumstances became clearer. My elderly parents – together with numerous community members – were abducted from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, 25 percent of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

Seventeen days later, my mum left confinement. Prior to leaving, she turned and shook hands of her captor. "Hello," she said. That image – a simple human connection during indescribable tragedy – was shared globally.

Over 500 days later, my father's remains were returned. He died just two miles from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. The two years since – our determined activism to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has compounded the original wound.

My mother and father remained campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, as are most of my family. We understand that hostility and vengeance won't provide the slightest solace from the pain.

I share these thoughts through tears. Over the months, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, not easier. The kids of my friends remain hostages along with the pressure of what followed is overwhelming.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I describe dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed sharing our story to fight for freedom, though grieving seems unaffordable we don't have – now, our campaign continues.

No part of this account represents justification for war. I continuously rejected the fighting from day one. The people of Gaza have suffered terribly.

I'm shocked by political choices, while maintaining that the militants shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Because I know their atrocities on October 7th. They betrayed the population – causing tragedy on both sides due to their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience with those who defend the attackers' actions feels like failing the deceased. My local circle confronts rising hostility, while my community there has struggled against its government consistently facing repeated disappointment again and again.

From the border, the devastation of the territory appears clearly and visceral. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that numerous people seem to grant to militant groups creates discouragement.