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It began that morning that seemed perfectly normal. I journeyed with my husband and son to collect a new puppy. Everything seemed steady – then everything changed.

Checking my device, I discovered updates from the border. I called my mother, anticipating her reassuring tone explaining everything was fine. No answer. My father didn't respond either. Then, I reached my brother – his tone instantly communicated the terrible truth before he spoke.

The Developing Tragedy

I've observed countless individuals on television whose lives had collapsed. Their gaze demonstrating they didn't understand their loss. Now it was me. The torrent of tragedy were overwhelming, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My child watched me across the seat. I shifted to make calls alone. When we reached our destination, I would witness the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the attackers who seized her house.

I thought to myself: "Not one of our family will survive."

Later, I saw footage showing fire bursting through our family home. Nonetheless, later on, I denied the home had burned – until my siblings shared with me photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

Getting to the city, I contacted the puppy provider. "Hostilities has erupted," I said. "My mother and father are likely gone. Our neighborhood fell to by militants."

The return trip involved trying to contact friends and family while simultaneously protecting my son from the terrible visuals that were emerging through networks.

The scenes of that day exceeded all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son seized by armed militants. My former educator driven toward the border on a golf cart.

Individuals circulated social media clips that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured to Gaza. A young mother and her little boys – children I had played with – being rounded up by attackers, the terror apparent in her expression devastating.

The Painful Period

It felt endless for the military to come the area. Then started the agonizing wait for news. Later that afternoon, one photograph emerged of survivors. My parents weren't there.

For days and weeks, as friends helped forensic teams identify victims, we scoured the internet for evidence of our loved ones. We encountered torture and mutilation. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the reality emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – along with dozens more – became captives from their home. My parent was in his eighties, my mother 85. Amid the terror, 25 percent of our community members were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my mother was released from confinement. Prior to leaving, she looked back and grasped the hand of the militant. "Shalom," she uttered. That moment – a basic human interaction within unspeakable violence – was broadcast worldwide.

More than sixteen months afterward, my father's remains came back. He was killed just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and their documentation continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our determined activism for the captives, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has compounded the original wound.

My family had always been campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, similar to many relatives. We understand that animosity and retaliation cannot bring the slightest solace from our suffering.

I share these thoughts while crying. Over the months, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The children belonging to companions are still captive with the burden of what followed is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I term remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We're used to discussing events to advocate for the captives, while mourning remains a luxury we cannot afford – and two years later, our work endures.

Not one word of this narrative serves as support for conflict. I've always been against hostilities from the beginning. The population in the territory endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I am horrified by political choices, while maintaining that the militants shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed their atrocities that day. They abandoned the community – creating pain for all through their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Sharing my story among individuals justifying the attackers' actions appears as failing the deceased. My local circle faces rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled against its government throughout this period while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

Across the fields, the destruction in Gaza is visible and emotional. It horrifies me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that various individuals seem willing to provide to militant groups causes hopelessness.