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It started on a morning that seemed entirely routine. I rode with my husband and son to welcome our new dog. The world appeared predictable – then it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I discovered reports concerning the frontier. I tried reaching my mum, hoping for her reassuring tone explaining she was safe. No answer. My father couldn't be reached. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his voice immediately revealed the devastating news even as he spoke.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've seen numerous faces through news coverage whose lives had collapsed. Their gaze showing they didn't understand their loss. Then it became our turn. The deluge of horror were overwhelming, and the debris remained chaotic.

My son glanced toward me over his laptop. I shifted to contact people alone. Once we got to our destination, I encountered the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the militants who took over her residence.

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

Later, I viewed videos depicting flames consuming our family home. Despite this, in the following days, I refused to accept the house was destroyed – until my brothers shared with me visual confirmation.

The Consequences

Upon arriving at the city, I called the kennel owner. "A war has erupted," I explained. "My parents are likely gone. My community fell to by terrorists."

The return trip involved attempting to reach friends and family and at the same time protecting my son from the horrific images that were emerging everywhere.

The footage of that day transcended any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son captured by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me transported to Gaza using transportation.

Individuals circulated digital recordings that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted into the territory. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the horror in her eyes devastating.

The Long Wait

It felt to take forever for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then commenced the painful anticipation for updates. As time passed, one photograph appeared of survivors. My family were not among them.

During the following period, as friends helped forensic teams identify victims, we searched digital spaces for signs of our loved ones. We encountered atrocities and horrors. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the reality grew more distinct. My aged family – as well as dozens more – were taken hostage from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, a quarter of our community members were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my parent was released from imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of the guard. "Peace," she uttered. That moment – a basic human interaction within unimaginable horror – was broadcast globally.

Over 500 days afterward, my parent's physical presence came back. He was murdered only kilometers from the kibbutz.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the primary pain.

Both my parents had always been campaigners for reconciliation. My parent remains, as are other loved ones. We understand that hate and revenge won't provide even momentary relief from this tragedy.

I write this amid sorrow. As time passes, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The children of my friends remain hostages and the weight of what followed is overwhelming.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I describe dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We've become accustomed sharing our story to advocate for freedom, though grieving seems unaffordable we cannot afford – now, our work persists.

Not one word of this story serves as support for conflict. I've always been against this conflict since it started. The residents of Gaza endured tragedy terribly.

I'm shocked by leadership actions, but I also insist that the organization are not innocent activists. Because I know their actions during those hours. They betrayed the population – causing pain for all due to their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Sharing my story with those who defend what happened feels like betraying my dead. My local circle experiences growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled against its government consistently facing repeated disappointment multiple times.

Looking over, the destruction across the frontier appears clearly and visceral. It appalls me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that various individuals seem to grant to the attackers creates discouragement.