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It began during that morning appearing completely ordinary. I was traveling with my husband and son to collect a furry companion. The world appeared predictable – then everything changed.

Opening my phone, I noticed news from the border. I dialed my parent, expecting her cheerful voice explaining she was safe. No answer. My father couldn't be reached. Afterward, I reached my brother – his tone instantly communicated the awful reality even as he said anything.

The Unfolding Tragedy

I've seen so many people through news coverage whose lives were destroyed. Their expressions demonstrating they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of tragedy were rising, and the debris hadn't settled.

My young one glanced toward me across the seat. I shifted to make calls alone. By the time we reached the city, I encountered the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the attackers who seized her residence.

I remember thinking: "Not one of our friends would make it."

Later, I saw footage revealing blazes erupting from our family home. Nonetheless, in the following days, I couldn't believe the home had burned – not until my family shared with me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at the city, I called the dog breeder. "Hostilities has started," I said. "My family may not survive. My community was captured by militants."

The return trip consisted of searching for loved ones while also guarding my young one from the horrific images that spread through networks.

The scenes of that day exceeded all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by multiple terrorists. My former educator transported to Gaza in a vehicle.

Friends sent digital recordings appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend also taken across the border. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – children I had played with – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the fear visible on her face stunning.

The Long Wait

It felt interminable for help to arrive the kibbutz. Then began the agonizing wait for information. Later that afternoon, one photograph appeared of survivors. My family were missing.

During the following period, while neighbors assisted investigators document losses, we searched online platforms for traces of our loved ones. We witnessed brutality and violence. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no evidence about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the circumstances emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – as well as 74 others – were abducted from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. In the chaos, 25 percent of the residents were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my parent was released from imprisonment. Before departing, she turned and grasped the hand of her captor. "Peace," she uttered. That image – an elemental act of humanity amid unspeakable violence – was broadcast globally.

More than sixteen months afterward, my father's remains were returned. He was killed only kilometers from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and the recorded evidence remain with me. The two years since – our determined activism for the captives, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the original wound.

My family had always been campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, as are most of my family. We know that hostility and vengeance won't provide any comfort from our suffering.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. With each day, talking about what happened grows harder, rather than simpler. The children of my friends remain hostages with the burden of what followed remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I describe remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed sharing our story to campaign for freedom, while mourning feels like privilege we cannot afford – now, our campaign endures.

Not one word of this narrative serves as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed hostilities since it started. The residents across the border have suffered beyond imagination.

I am horrified by political choices, yet emphasizing that the militants are not peaceful protesters. Having seen what they did on October 7th. They betrayed the community – ensuring tragedy on both sides due to their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying what happened seems like betraying my dead. My community here confronts growing prejudice, while my community there has fought against its government consistently while experiencing betrayal again and again.

From the border, the ruin in Gaza appears clearly and painful. It horrifies me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that various individuals appear to offer to the organizations causes hopelessness.