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It started on a morning looking perfectly normal. I was traveling with my husband and son to collect our new dog. Life felt predictable – before it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I discovered reports about the border region. I dialed my mum, hoping for her calm response saying she was safe. Nothing. My father couldn't be reached. Next, my brother answered – his speech immediately revealed the devastating news prior to he explained.

The Emerging Horror

I've seen so many people on television whose existence were destroyed. Their expressions showing they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of horror were rising, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My son looked at me from his screen. I shifted to make calls separately. Once we got to the city, I would witness the horrific murder of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the attackers who seized her house.

I remember thinking: "Not one of our family could live through this."

Eventually, I viewed videos showing fire bursting through our residence. Despite this, in the following days, I denied the building was gone – until my siblings sent me visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at our destination, I phoned the kennel owner. "Conflict has started," I explained. "My family are likely gone. My community fell to by terrorists."

The journey home was spent attempting to reach friends and family while also shielding my child from the terrible visuals that circulated everywhere.

The footage from that day were beyond any possible expectation. A child from our community captured by armed militants. Someone who taught me transported to the border in a vehicle.

People shared digital recordings appearing unbelievable. A senior community member similarly captured to Gaza. A woman I knew with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – captured by armed terrorists, the terror in her eyes devastating.

The Agonizing Delay

It seemed interminable for the military to come the area. Then commenced the painful anticipation for news. As time passed, one photograph circulated showing those who made it. My parents were not among them.

During the following period, as community members assisted investigators identify victims, we combed online platforms for evidence of those missing. We witnessed torture and mutilation. We didn't discover footage of my father – no indication regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the reality became clearer. My aged family – as well as numerous community members – were abducted from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my mother 85. Amid the terror, a quarter of our community members were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my parent was released from confinement. Prior to leaving, she looked back and shook hands of the guard. "Peace," she uttered. That moment – an elemental act of humanity during indescribable tragedy – was shared globally.

Five hundred and two days later, my parent's physical presence came back. He was murdered only kilometers from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. The two years since – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has worsened the primary pain.

Both my parents were lifelong peace activists. Mom continues, similar to other loved ones. We recognize that hate and revenge don't offer the slightest solace from this tragedy.

I write this through tears. With each day, talking about what happened grows harder, rather than simpler. The kids belonging to companions are still captive along with the pressure of the aftermath feels heavy.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I term remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We typically telling our experience to fight for freedom, though grieving remains a luxury we don't have – now, our work endures.

Nothing of this narrative is intended as justification for war. I continuously rejected hostilities from the beginning. The people of Gaza have suffered beyond imagination.

I am horrified by leadership actions, while maintaining that the militants are not peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed what they did during those hours. They failed the population – causing tragedy on both sides through their deadly philosophy.

The Community Split

Sharing my story with those who defend the attackers' actions seems like betraying my dead. My community here faces growing prejudice, while my community there has struggled versus leadership throughout this period facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

Looking over, the destruction across the frontier can be seen and visceral. It horrifies me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that various individuals appear to offer to the attackers causes hopelessness.