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It unfolded during that morning appearing perfectly normal. I was traveling with my husband and son to collect a new puppy. The world appeared secure – until reality shattered.

Checking my device, I discovered reports concerning the frontier. I dialed my mother, hoping for her cheerful voice explaining everything was fine. No answer. My father couldn't be reached. Afterward, my brother answered – his speech immediately revealed the terrible truth prior to he spoke.

The Developing Nightmare

I've seen countless individuals through news coverage whose worlds had collapsed. Their expressions demonstrating they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The torrent of tragedy were rising, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My son watched me over his laptop. I moved to make calls separately. When we reached our destination, I saw the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the militants who captured her house.

I thought to myself: "None of our loved ones would make it."

Later, I saw footage depicting flames consuming our family home. Despite this, later on, I denied the house was destroyed – before my brothers sent me photographs and evidence.

The Consequences

When we reached our destination, I contacted the dog breeder. "Conflict has begun," I told them. "My parents are probably dead. Our kibbutz was captured by terrorists."

The ride back consisted of searching for friends and family while simultaneously guarding my young one from the horrific images that circulated across platforms.

The scenes during those hours were beyond anything we could imagine. A child from our community seized by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me driven toward the territory in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion also taken into the territory. A young mother with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – captured by armed terrorists, the terror in her eyes stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It appeared interminable for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for news. In the evening, a single image circulated depicting escapees. My family weren't there.

For days and weeks, as friends assisted investigators locate the missing, we scoured online platforms for evidence of family members. We witnessed torture and mutilation. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no evidence about his final moments.

The Developing Reality

Gradually, the circumstances became clearer. My senior mother and father – together with dozens more – became captives from our kibbutz. My father was 83, Mom was 85. During the violence, one in four of the residents lost their lives or freedom.

Seventeen days later, my mum emerged from captivity. Before departing, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of the guard. "Shalom," she uttered. That moment – a basic human interaction within indescribable tragedy – was broadcast everywhere.

Over 500 days later, Dad's body were returned. He died just two miles from our home.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and the visual proof continue to haunt me. The two years since – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has intensified the initial trauma.

My family had always been campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, like most of my family. We know that animosity and retaliation won't provide any comfort from this tragedy.

I compose these words while crying. Over the months, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The children of my friends remain hostages and the weight of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I describe dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We typically discussing events to advocate for hostage release, though grieving remains a luxury we lack – and two years later, our work continues.

Nothing of this account is intended as justification for war. I've always been against the fighting from day one. The population across the border endured tragedy terribly.

I am horrified by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the militants shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Having seen their actions that day. They failed the community – ensuring tragedy on both sides due to their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth with people supporting what happened feels like betraying my dead. My local circle experiences unprecedented antisemitism, and our people back home has fought versus leadership throughout this period and been betrayed repeatedly.

Looking over, the devastation of the territory is visible and visceral. It appalls me. At the same time, the complete justification that various individuals appear to offer to the organizations causes hopelessness.