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It started during that morning appearing entirely routine. I was traveling with my husband and son to collect a furry companion. Life felt secure – until reality shattered.

Opening my phone, I noticed news from the border. I tried reaching my mum, hoping for her reassuring tone explaining everything was fine. Silence. My dad was also silent. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his tone immediately revealed the awful reality even as he explained.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've witnessed countless individuals on television whose lives had collapsed. Their expressions showing they didn't understand their loss. Then it became our turn. The torrent of tragedy were overwhelming, and the debris remained chaotic.

My young one looked at me over his laptop. I moved to contact people alone. When we got to the station, I encountered the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the militants who seized her home.

I thought to myself: "Not a single of our friends could live through this."

At some point, I witnessed recordings showing fire erupting from our residence. Despite this, later on, I denied the building was gone – before my brothers sent me images and proof.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at the city, I called the kennel owner. "A war has started," I told them. "My parents are likely gone. Our kibbutz fell to by attackers."

The return trip involved attempting to reach friends and family and at the same time shielding my child from the awful footage that were emerging everywhere.

The images of that day were beyond anything we could imagine. A child from our community captured by several attackers. Someone who taught me taken in the direction of the territory on a golf cart.

People shared social media clips appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted to Gaza. A woman I knew with her two small sons – children I had played with – captured by attackers, the terror visible on her face stunning.

The Painful Period

It felt endless for help to arrive the area. Then commenced the agonizing wait for news. Later that afternoon, one photograph emerged showing those who made it. My mother and father were not among them.

For days and weeks, while neighbors worked with authorities document losses, we combed online platforms for signs of our loved ones. We witnessed brutality and violence. We didn't discover footage of my father – no clue about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Eventually, the circumstances grew more distinct. My elderly parents – together with 74 others – became captives from their home. My father was 83, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, a quarter of our neighbors were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my mum left confinement. As she left, she turned and shook hands of the guard. "Shalom," she said. That image – a simple human connection during unspeakable violence – was shared globally.

Over 500 days afterward, my father's remains were recovered. He was killed just two miles from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These experiences and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. The two years since – our determined activism to save hostages, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the devastation in Gaza – has compounded the primary pain.

My mother and father were lifelong advocates for peace. My parent remains, as are other loved ones. We understand that hate and revenge don't offer the slightest solace from the pain.

I share these thoughts through tears. Over the months, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The young ones from my community continue imprisoned with the burden of subsequent events is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I term remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We're used to telling our experience to advocate for the captives, despite sorrow remains a luxury we cannot afford – and two years later, our efforts persists.

Not one word of this account represents endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed this conflict since it started. The people in the territory have suffered terribly.

I'm shocked by government decisions, while maintaining that the militants cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed their actions during those hours. They betrayed the population – causing suffering for everyone because of their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Telling my truth with those who defend the attackers' actions seems like failing the deceased. My local circle faces rising hostility, and our people back home has fought versus leadership consistently facing repeated disappointment again and again.

From the border, the ruin across the frontier can be seen and emotional. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that numerous people seem willing to provide to the organizations makes me despair.