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It began during that morning appearing entirely routine. I was traveling with my husband and son to pick up a new puppy. Everything seemed predictable – then reality shattered.

Checking my device, I saw reports from the border. I dialed my parent, anticipating her cheerful voice telling me everything was fine. Nothing. My parent couldn't be reached. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his speech instantly communicated the terrible truth prior to he explained.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've witnessed numerous faces in media reports whose existence had collapsed. Their expressions showing they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Now it was me. The floodwaters of tragedy were overwhelming, and the debris was still swirling.

My young one looked at me over his laptop. I shifted to contact people alone. When we reached our destination, I would witness the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the terrorists who seized her house.

I remember thinking: "Not a single of our family would make it."

Eventually, I witnessed recordings depicting flames consuming our residence. Despite this, for days afterward, I refused to accept the home had burned – until my brothers provided visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at the station, I phoned the kennel owner. "Conflict has started," I said. "My family are probably dead. My community was captured by militants."

The journey home was spent attempting to reach friends and family while also protecting my son from the terrible visuals that were emerging everywhere.

The images of that day transcended all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son seized by armed militants. My former educator driven toward the territory using transportation.

People shared social media clips appearing unbelievable. A senior community member also taken into the territory. A young mother with her two small sons – children I had played with – seized by armed terrorists, the horror in her eyes paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It felt endless for help to arrive the kibbutz. Then commenced the agonizing wait for updates. As time passed, one photograph circulated depicting escapees. My mother and father weren't there.

During the following period, as community members assisted investigators document losses, we combed the internet for signs of family members. We saw atrocities and horrors. There was no footage of my father – no clue about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the situation emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – as well as numerous community members – were abducted from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. During the violence, one in four of our neighbors were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mum emerged from confinement. Before departing, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of the guard. "Shalom," she uttered. That image – a basic human interaction during unspeakable violence – was broadcast everywhere.

Over 500 days later, my parent's physical presence were returned. He died just two miles from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. Everything that followed – our determined activism to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the initial trauma.

My mother and father had always been peace activists. My parent remains, as are most of my family. We recognize that hate and revenge won't provide even momentary relief from this tragedy.

I write this through tears. With each day, sharing the experience grows harder, rather than simpler. The children of my friends remain hostages along with the pressure of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I call dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed telling our experience to fight for the captives, despite sorrow seems unaffordable we lack – now, our efforts endures.

Nothing of this account serves as endorsement of violence. I've always been against this conflict since it started. The population across the border have suffered beyond imagination.

I'm shocked by leadership actions, while maintaining that the attackers are not benign resistance fighters. Having seen their actions on October 7th. They failed the population – creating suffering for everyone through their deadly philosophy.

The Community Split

Sharing my story with those who defend the attackers' actions appears as dishonoring the lost. My community here faces growing prejudice, while my community there has struggled versus leadership throughout this period and been betrayed again and again.

Looking over, the ruin across the frontier can be seen and visceral. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that many seem to grant to the organizations causes hopelessness.