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It began on a morning that seemed entirely routine. I was traveling with my husband and son to collect our new dog. Everything seemed secure – until everything changed.

Checking my device, I discovered reports about the border region. I tried reaching my parent, expecting her reassuring tone saying they were secure. No answer. My parent didn't respond either. Next, I reached my brother – his speech already told me the awful reality before he said anything.

The Developing Nightmare

I've observed countless individuals in media reports whose existence had collapsed. Their gaze showing they couldn't comprehend their loss. Suddenly it was us. The torrent of horror were overwhelming, and the debris was still swirling.

My child looked at me over his laptop. I shifted to reach out in private. When we arrived the station, I would witness the terrible killing of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the militants who took over her home.

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

Eventually, I viewed videos revealing blazes bursting through our residence. Even then, in the following days, I denied the building was gone – not until my brothers provided photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

When we reached our destination, I contacted the puppy provider. "Hostilities has started," I explained. "My parents may not survive. My community fell to by militants."

The journey home was spent trying to contact community members while simultaneously shielding my child from the horrific images that spread everywhere.

The scenes from that day transcended anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by several attackers. Someone who taught me transported to the territory using transportation.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion likewise abducted across the border. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – children I had played with – seized by armed terrorists, the horror in her eyes stunning.

The Painful Period

It felt endless for the military to come our community. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for news. In the evening, one photograph emerged showing those who made it. My family were missing.

For days and weeks, while neighbors assisted investigators identify victims, we searched the internet for evidence of family members. We witnessed brutality and violence. We never found recordings showing my parent – no indication regarding his experience.

The Emerging Picture

Over time, the circumstances grew more distinct. My aged family – together with dozens more – became captives from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. In the chaos, a quarter of our community members were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother emerged from imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she looked back and shook hands of her captor. "Shalom," she uttered. That image – an elemental act of humanity amid unspeakable violence – was broadcast everywhere.

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

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and their documentation remain with me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts to save hostages, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the original wound.

Both my parents had always been peace activists. Mom continues, like many relatives. We understand that hate and revenge cannot bring even momentary relief from our suffering.

I write this amid sorrow. With each day, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The young ones from my community continue imprisoned along with the pressure of what followed remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I describe remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We've become accustomed sharing our story to campaign for freedom, despite sorrow remains a luxury we lack – after 24 months, our work continues.

Nothing of this account serves as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed this conflict from day one. The residents across the border endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I'm shocked by political choices, while maintaining that the organization cannot be considered innocent activists. Because I know their actions during those hours. They failed the community – causing tragedy on both sides due to their violent beliefs.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story with people supporting what happened seems like dishonoring the lost. My local circle confronts rising hostility, and our people back home has campaigned versus leadership consistently and been betrayed multiple times.

From the border, the devastation of the territory can be seen and painful. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that numerous people seem willing to provide to the organizations makes me despair.