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It started that morning that seemed perfectly normal. I journeyed with my husband and son to welcome a furry companion. Everything seemed predictable – before it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered reports from the border. I called my parent, anticipating her reassuring tone telling me they were secure. Nothing. My parent didn't respond either. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his tone instantly communicated the terrible truth even as he explained.

The Unfolding Horror

I've observed so many people in media reports whose existence had collapsed. Their eyes demonstrating they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of violence were rising, with the wreckage remained chaotic.

My child looked at me from his screen. I shifted to contact people separately. When we reached the station, I saw the terrible killing of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the militants who captured her house.

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

At some point, I viewed videos showing fire consuming our residence. Despite this, in the following days, I denied the building was gone – before my brothers sent me visual confirmation.

The Consequences

Getting to our destination, I phoned the puppy provider. "Conflict has started," I said. "My mother and father are probably dead. Our kibbutz was captured by militants."

The journey home consisted of searching for loved ones while simultaneously protecting my son from the awful footage that spread everywhere.

The footage during those hours transcended all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son taken by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me transported to the territory on a golf cart.

Individuals circulated digital recordings that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion likewise abducted into the territory. A young mother and her little boys – kids I recently saw – seized by militants, the fear apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt to take forever for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then commenced the painful anticipation for news. As time passed, a lone picture appeared showing those who made it. My mother and father were not among them.

Over many days, as friends worked with authorities locate the missing, we combed the internet for traces of family members. We encountered atrocities and horrors. We never found recordings showing my parent – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the situation became clearer. My elderly parents – along with dozens more – were taken hostage from their home. My father was 83, Mom was 85. During the violence, a quarter of our neighbors were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my mum left imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of the militant. "Hello," she spoke. That moment – a simple human connection within unimaginable horror – was broadcast worldwide.

Five hundred and two days later, my father's remains were returned. He was killed only kilometers from the kibbutz.

The Continuing Trauma

These experiences and their documentation continue to haunt me. The two years since – our desperate campaign to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the initial trauma.

My family were lifelong advocates for peace. Mom continues, as are many relatives. We recognize that animosity and retaliation don't offer the slightest solace from this tragedy.

I write this amid sorrow. With each day, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The kids belonging to companions are still captive and the weight of what followed feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I describe focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed telling our experience to fight for the captives, though grieving remains a luxury we lack – after 24 months, our work endures.

Nothing of this story serves as endorsement of violence. I've always been against the fighting from day one. The people in the territory endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by government decisions, but I also insist that the organization are not innocent activists. Having seen their atrocities that day. They abandoned their own people – causing suffering for everyone because of their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth among individuals justifying the violence seems like dishonoring the lost. My community here faces unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned versus leadership for two years and been betrayed repeatedly.

From the border, the ruin in Gaza appears clearly and emotional. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that numerous people appear to offer to the organizations causes hopelessness.