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It began on a morning appearing perfectly normal. I was traveling with my husband and son to pick up a furry companion. The world appeared steady – then it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed reports from the border. I dialed my parent, expecting her cheerful voice saying they were secure. No answer. My father didn't respond either. Next, my brother answered – his voice immediately revealed the awful reality before he spoke.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've observed numerous faces on television whose existence were torn apart. Their eyes demonstrating they couldn't comprehend their loss. Now it was me. The torrent of tragedy were building, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My child watched me over his laptop. I moved to reach out alone. When we reached the city, I saw the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the militants who captured her home.

I recall believing: "Not one of our family will survive."

At some point, I saw footage showing fire bursting through our house. Despite this, later on, I denied the home had burned – before my family shared with me visual confirmation.

The Consequences

Getting to the city, I contacted the kennel owner. "A war has erupted," I explained. "My mother and father are likely gone. My community fell to by attackers."

The ride back consisted of searching for community members while also shielding my child from the awful footage that spread through networks.

The footage during those hours were beyond all comprehension. A child from our community taken by armed militants. My former educator taken in the direction of Gaza using transportation.

People shared Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. A senior community member similarly captured into the territory. A woman I knew with her two small sons – children I had played with – captured by armed terrorists, the horror in her eyes devastating.

The Painful Period

It felt endless for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then began the terrible uncertainty for information. As time passed, a lone picture emerged depicting escapees. My mother and father were not among them.

For days and weeks, while neighbors helped forensic teams document losses, we scoured online platforms for signs of family members. We encountered torture and mutilation. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Over time, the circumstances became clearer. My senior mother and father – as well as numerous community members – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. During the violence, a quarter of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent emerged from captivity. Before departing, she turned and grasped the hand of her captor. "Peace," she said. That moment – a simple human connection amid unimaginable horror – was transmitted worldwide.

Over 500 days afterward, Dad's body were recovered. He was killed a short distance from our home.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. The two years since – our determined activism for the captives, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has intensified the original wound.

My mother and father were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. My parent remains, like many relatives. We understand that animosity and retaliation cannot bring even momentary relief from this tragedy.

I write this through tears. As time passes, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The children of my friends are still captive and the weight of what followed is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I describe focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed sharing our story to fight for freedom, while mourning seems unaffordable we lack – after 24 months, our campaign persists.

Not one word of this story serves as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed the fighting from day one. The people of Gaza experienced pain beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by political choices, but I also insist that the attackers cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Because I know their actions during those hours. They abandoned the community – ensuring suffering for everyone through their violent beliefs.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience with those who defend what happened feels like dishonoring the lost. The people around me confronts growing prejudice, and our people back home has struggled with the authorities throughout this period and been betrayed again and again.

Across the fields, the ruin of the territory can be seen and emotional. It appalls me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that various individuals seem willing to provide to militant groups creates discouragement.