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It began during that morning looking completely ordinary. I journeyed with my husband and son to pick up our new dog. Life felt secure – before reality shattered.

Opening my phone, I noticed news concerning the frontier. I called my parent, expecting her reassuring tone telling me she was safe. No answer. My parent was also silent. Next, my brother answered – his tone instantly communicated the devastating news before he spoke.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've witnessed countless individuals on television whose existence were destroyed. Their eyes demonstrating they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The torrent of tragedy were overwhelming, amid the destruction was still swirling.

My son watched me from his screen. I moved to contact people separately. When we got to our destination, I saw the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the attackers who seized her home.

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

Later, I viewed videos revealing blazes consuming our residence. Despite this, in the following days, I denied the house was destroyed – until my brothers provided photographs and evidence.

The Consequences

When we reached our destination, I phoned the kennel owner. "Hostilities has begun," I told them. "My mother and father are probably dead. Our kibbutz was captured by attackers."

The journey home was spent searching for loved ones while also protecting my son from the terrible visuals that were emerging through networks.

The scenes during those hours were beyond anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son taken by multiple terrorists. My former educator transported to the border using transportation.

Individuals circulated digital recordings that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend also taken across the border. A woman I knew and her little boys – kids I recently saw – captured by militants, the horror visible on her face stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt endless for assistance to reach the area. Then started the agonizing wait for news. As time passed, a lone picture emerged showing those who made it. My family were not among them.

For days and weeks, as friends helped forensic teams document losses, we searched online platforms for evidence of those missing. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover footage of my father – no clue regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the circumstances grew more distinct. My elderly parents – together with numerous community members – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my mother 85. During the violence, a quarter of our community members were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my mother was released from confinement. As she left, she turned and shook hands of the guard. "Hello," she spoke. That moment – a basic human interaction amid unspeakable violence – was transmitted everywhere.

Five hundred and two days following, Dad's body were returned. He was murdered only kilometers from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These experiences and the visual proof still terrorize me. The two years since – our desperate campaign to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has compounded the initial trauma.

My mother and father were lifelong peace activists. My parent remains, similar to many relatives. We know that hostility and vengeance don't offer even momentary relief from the pain.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. With each day, sharing the experience grows harder, rather than simpler. The children belonging to companions are still captive and the weight of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I term dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We typically telling our experience to fight for hostage release, despite sorrow feels like privilege we cannot afford – and two years later, our efforts endures.

No part of this story is intended as support for conflict. I have consistently opposed this conflict from the beginning. The population across the border have suffered beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by political choices, while maintaining that the organization are not peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed what they did that day. They failed the population – causing suffering for everyone due to their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story with those who defend the violence appears as betraying my dead. My local circle faces rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought with the authorities consistently facing repeated disappointment multiple times.

Across the fields, the destruction of the territory can be seen and emotional. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that various individuals appear to offer to the organizations causes hopelessness.