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It started that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I journeyed with my husband and son to pick up a new puppy. The world appeared secure – then it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed updates from the border. I called my mother, anticipating her reassuring tone saying they were secure. Silence. My father didn't respond either. Then, my brother answered – his voice immediately revealed the terrible truth even as he spoke.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've seen so many people through news coverage whose lives were torn apart. Their expressions demonstrating they didn't understand what they'd lost. Now it was me. The floodwaters of tragedy were rising, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My son glanced toward me from his screen. I relocated to make calls alone. When we reached our destination, I encountered the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the attackers who took over her house.

I recall believing: "Not a single of our family would make it."

At some point, I saw footage depicting flames consuming our residence. Nonetheless, later on, I couldn't believe the home had burned – not until my brothers provided visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at the station, I called the puppy provider. "A war has started," I said. "My mother and father are probably dead. Our neighborhood fell to by terrorists."

The return trip consisted of trying to contact friends and family while also guarding my young one from the awful footage that circulated through networks.

The scenes of that day exceeded any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son taken by several attackers. My former educator taken in the direction of Gaza on a golf cart.

Friends sent social media clips that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted into the territory. A woman I knew accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – captured by militants, the fear apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It felt interminable for the military to come the kibbutz. Then began the painful anticipation for news. As time passed, one photograph appeared showing those who made it. My family were missing.

During the following period, while neighbors assisted investigators document losses, we searched digital spaces for traces of family members. We encountered brutality and violence. We didn't discover footage of my father – no evidence about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the reality emerged more fully. My aged family – together with dozens more – became captives from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. During the violence, one in four of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother left confinement. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and shook hands of the guard. "Shalom," she spoke. That moment – a basic human interaction within unimaginable horror – was shared everywhere.

Over 500 days afterward, my father's remains were returned. He was murdered just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the visual proof still terrorize me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the initial trauma.

Both my parents had always been advocates for peace. Mom continues, similar to most of my family. We understand that hate and revenge won't provide even momentary relief from our suffering.

I compose these words through tears. With each day, discussing these events grows harder, not easier. The children from my community continue imprisoned and the weight of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I describe remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed telling our experience to campaign for hostage release, while mourning seems unaffordable we don't have – and two years later, our efforts continues.

Not one word of this account represents justification for war. I have consistently opposed this conflict from the beginning. The people of Gaza experienced pain beyond imagination.

I'm shocked by political choices, while maintaining that the organization are not innocent activists. Because I know what they did on October 7th. They betrayed their own people – causing tragedy on both sides because of their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth with those who defend what happened seems like failing the deceased. My local circle experiences growing prejudice, while my community there has campaigned with the authorities consistently and been betrayed multiple times.

Across the fields, the ruin across the frontier appears clearly and visceral. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the moral carte blanche that various individuals seem willing to provide to the organizations creates discouragement.