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It unfolded that morning appearing completely ordinary. I was traveling with my husband and son to welcome a new puppy. Life felt secure – then everything changed.

Checking my device, I noticed news about the border region. I tried reaching my mother, expecting her calm response saying they were secure. No answer. My dad didn't respond either. Next, I reached my brother – his speech instantly communicated the terrible truth even as he explained.

The Developing Tragedy

I've witnessed countless individuals in media reports whose existence had collapsed. Their eyes revealing they didn't understand their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of violence were rising, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My son watched me over his laptop. I moved to reach out alone. By the time we arrived the station, I encountered the horrific murder of a woman from my past – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the militants who took over her house.

I remember thinking: "Not a single of our friends could live through this."

Later, I witnessed recordings showing fire consuming our house. Nonetheless, later on, I couldn't believe the building was gone – until my family shared with me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Getting to the station, I contacted the dog breeder. "Hostilities has begun," I told them. "My family are probably dead. Our kibbutz fell to by attackers."

The ride back consisted of searching for community members while simultaneously protecting my son from the awful footage that were emerging across platforms.

The scenes of that day exceeded all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son taken by multiple terrorists. My former educator driven toward Gaza in a vehicle.

Friends sent Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. A senior community member similarly captured across the border. A young mother and her little boys – kids I recently saw – captured by militants, the terror apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It appeared interminable for help to arrive the area. Then began the agonizing wait for updates. Later that afternoon, a lone picture emerged of survivors. My family weren't there.

During the following period, while neighbors worked with authorities document losses, we scoured digital spaces for evidence of family members. We saw brutality and violence. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Over time, the situation became clearer. My senior mother and father – as well as numerous community members – were abducted from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. During the violence, one in four of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my parent left confinement. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of her captor. "Peace," she spoke. That image – an elemental act of humanity amid indescribable tragedy – was shared everywhere.

Over 500 days following, Dad's body came back. He was killed just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and the visual proof remain with me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts for the captives, Dad's terrible fate, the ongoing war, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the initial trauma.

My family had always been campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, like many relatives. We know that hate and revenge don't offer any comfort from this tragedy.

I compose these words while crying. With each day, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, not easier. The young ones of my friends remain hostages with the burden of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I describe focusing on the trauma "immersed in suffering". We're used to discussing events to fight for hostage release, while mourning remains a luxury we lack – now, our work endures.

Nothing of this narrative is intended as support for conflict. I've always been against this conflict from day one. The residents across the border experienced pain beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by political choices, while maintaining that the attackers are not peaceful protesters. Because I know what they did during those hours. They abandoned their own people – creating tragedy on both sides because of their deadly philosophy.

The Community Split

Telling my truth with those who defend the attackers' actions seems like dishonoring the lost. The people around me confronts unprecedented antisemitism, while my community there has struggled against its government consistently and been betrayed repeatedly.

Across the fields, the devastation in Gaza appears clearly and emotional. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that many appear to offer to the organizations causes hopelessness.