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It began that morning appearing entirely routine. I was traveling with my husband and son to welcome a furry companion. Life felt predictable – before reality shattered.

Checking my device, I noticed updates from the border. I called my mother, expecting her reassuring tone telling me everything was fine. Silence. My father was also silent. Next, my brother answered – his speech immediately revealed the awful reality even as he spoke.

The Developing Nightmare

I've seen numerous faces in media reports whose existence were torn apart. Their expressions demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their loss. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of violence were overwhelming, and the debris was still swirling.

My child glanced toward me across the seat. I moved to contact people in private. Once we reached our destination, I saw the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the militants who took over her residence.

I thought to myself: "Not one of our loved ones would make it."

Eventually, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes bursting through our house. Even then, in the following days, I refused to accept the building was gone – before my family sent me images and proof.

The Fallout

Getting to the station, I phoned the dog breeder. "Conflict has begun," I said. "My family may not survive. Our neighborhood has been taken over by militants."

The journey home consisted of attempting to reach community members while also protecting my son from the horrific images that spread across platforms.

The footage during those hours transcended all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son captured by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher driven toward the territory using transportation.

People shared Telegram videos that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted to Gaza. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – captured by militants, the fear visible on her face devastating.

The Long Wait

It seemed to take forever for assistance to reach the area. Then commenced the agonizing wait for updates. Later that afternoon, one photograph circulated showing those who made it. My parents weren't there.

Over many days, as friends assisted investigators identify victims, we combed digital spaces for traces of family members. We saw brutality and violence. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the reality grew more distinct. My senior mother and father – as well as numerous community members – became captives from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, a quarter of our neighbors were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mother was released from captivity. As she left, she looked back and offered a handshake of the militant. "Hello," she said. That image – a basic human interaction during indescribable tragedy – was shared everywhere.

More than sixteen months afterward, Dad's body were returned. He died only kilometers from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and their documentation remain with me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign for the captives, Dad's terrible fate, the ongoing war, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the initial trauma.

My mother and father remained campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, similar to most of my family. We understand that hate and revenge cannot bring even momentary relief from the pain.

I compose these words while crying. With each day, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The young ones belonging to companions remain hostages along with the pressure of what followed is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I call dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We're used to sharing our story to campaign for hostage release, while mourning seems unaffordable we lack – and two years later, our work persists.

Not one word of this story represents support for conflict. I continuously rejected the fighting from day one. The residents of Gaza have suffered beyond imagination.

I am horrified by government decisions, but I also insist that the militants cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed their atrocities that day. They betrayed the community – causing suffering for everyone because of their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Sharing my story with those who defend the attackers' actions feels like failing the deceased. My local circle faces unprecedented antisemitism, and our people back home has fought versus leadership consistently and been betrayed again and again.

Across the fields, the devastation of the territory appears clearly and visceral. It horrifies me. At the same time, the complete justification that many appear to offer to the attackers makes me despair.