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It started that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I rode with my husband and son to welcome a new puppy. The world appeared predictable – then it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I discovered news about the border region. I tried reaching my mum, hoping for her reassuring tone saying everything was fine. No answer. My parent didn't respond either. Afterward, my brother answered – his speech immediately revealed the terrible truth prior to he spoke.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've observed countless individuals on television whose worlds were destroyed. Their eyes showing they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Now it was me. The torrent of tragedy were building, amid the destruction was still swirling.

My son glanced toward me over his laptop. I shifted to make calls separately. By the time we got to the city, I would witness the horrific murder of a woman from my past – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the attackers who took over her residence.

I thought to myself: "None of our loved ones will survive."

Eventually, I witnessed recordings depicting flames erupting from our family home. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I denied the home had burned – before my brothers provided photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at our destination, I contacted the dog breeder. "Conflict has started," I said. "My family are likely gone. Our kibbutz was captured by militants."

The return trip involved attempting to reach community members and at the same time shielding my child from the awful footage that circulated across platforms.

The footage of that day transcended any possible expectation. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by several attackers. Someone who taught me taken in the direction of Gaza in a vehicle.

People shared Telegram videos that defied reality. A senior community member also taken across the border. A young mother and her little boys – boys I knew well – seized by militants, the terror visible on her face paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It felt interminable for help to arrive our community. Then began the painful anticipation for information. As time passed, a single image appeared showing those who made it. My mother and father weren't there.

During the following period, as friends worked with authorities identify victims, we scoured digital spaces for evidence of family members. We encountered atrocities and horrors. We never found footage of my father – no indication regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the situation grew more distinct. My elderly parents – along with dozens more – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my other parent was elderly. In the chaos, a quarter of our neighbors were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my parent was released from imprisonment. Before departing, she turned and shook hands of her captor. "Shalom," she uttered. That moment – an elemental act of humanity amid unimaginable horror – was broadcast worldwide.

Five hundred and two days afterward, Dad's body came back. He was killed just two miles from where we lived.

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the destruction across the border – has worsened the original wound.

Both my parents remained campaigners for reconciliation. My parent remains, similar to other loved ones. We understand that hostility and vengeance won't provide even momentary relief from the pain.

I write this while crying. Over the months, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, not easier. The young ones of my friends remain hostages along with the pressure of what followed is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I term focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We're used to telling our experience to campaign for hostage release, while mourning remains a luxury we cannot afford – and two years later, our campaign persists.

No part of this story serves as support for conflict. I continuously rejected this conflict from day one. The people in the territory endured tragedy unimaginably.

I'm shocked by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the attackers shouldn't be viewed as innocent activists. Since I witnessed what they did during those hours. They betrayed the community – ensuring pain for all because of their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience with people supporting what happened seems like failing the deceased. My community here confronts rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled against its government consistently and been betrayed again and again.

Across the fields, the ruin of the territory can be seen and emotional. It horrifies me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that many seem willing to provide to militant groups causes hopelessness.