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It started that morning looking perfectly normal. I rode with my husband and son to collect our new dog. The world appeared steady – before reality shattered.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed reports about the border region. I called my mother, hoping for her cheerful voice saying everything was fine. Nothing. My father couldn't be reached. Afterward, I reached my brother – his speech immediately revealed the devastating news even as he said anything.

The Developing Horror

I've observed countless individuals in media reports whose lives were torn apart. Their gaze demonstrating they didn't understand what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of violence were building, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My son glanced toward me from his screen. I moved to contact people separately. Once we reached our destination, I would witness the horrific murder of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the terrorists who took over her residence.

I remember thinking: "Not one of our loved ones would make it."

At some point, I saw footage depicting flames erupting from our residence. Nonetheless, in the following days, I refused to accept the home had burned – not until my family shared with me photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at the city, I contacted the puppy provider. "Conflict has started," I told them. "My family are probably dead. Our kibbutz fell to by terrorists."

The ride back involved trying to contact loved ones and at the same time protecting my son from the terrible visuals that circulated everywhere.

The scenes of that day were beyond anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son seized by armed militants. Someone who taught me transported to the territory using transportation.

People shared Telegram videos that defied reality. A senior community member likewise abducted across the border. A woman I knew and her little boys – boys I knew well – being rounded up by militants, the terror in her eyes devastating.

The Painful Period

It seemed endless for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then started the terrible uncertainty for news. Later that afternoon, a single image circulated depicting escapees. My family were not among them.

Over many days, as friends assisted investigators locate the missing, we combed online platforms for evidence of our loved ones. We encountered torture and mutilation. We never found recordings showing my parent – no indication about his final moments.

The Developing Reality

Gradually, the circumstances became clearer. My aged family – along with 74 others – became captives from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, one in four of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

Seventeen days later, my mother emerged from imprisonment. As she left, she looked back and offered a handshake of the militant. "Shalom," she said. That gesture – a basic human interaction amid unspeakable violence – was broadcast everywhere.

Five hundred and two days later, Dad's body came back. He was murdered a short distance from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. The two years since – our urgent efforts to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the initial trauma.

My family were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, like most of my family. We know that animosity and retaliation cannot bring even momentary relief from the pain.

I compose these words through tears. Over the months, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The kids from my community continue imprisoned and the weight of what followed remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I call dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We're used to sharing our story to fight for freedom, while mourning remains a luxury we cannot afford – now, our efforts endures.

No part of this narrative represents justification for war. I have consistently opposed hostilities from day one. The population of Gaza experienced pain beyond imagination.

I'm shocked by leadership actions, while maintaining that the attackers are not peaceful protesters. Because I know what they did on October 7th. They failed the community – creating tragedy on both sides through their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth among individuals justifying the violence feels like failing the deceased. My community here confronts unprecedented antisemitism, and our people back home has campaigned versus leadership consistently while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

From the border, the destruction in Gaza appears clearly and painful. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that many appear to offer to the organizations makes me despair.