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It unfolded during that morning appearing completely ordinary. I rode with my husband and son to welcome our new dog. The world appeared steady – then everything changed.

Opening my phone, I saw reports from the border. I dialed my mother, anticipating her calm response telling me everything was fine. Nothing. My father didn't respond either. Next, I reached my brother – his voice instantly communicated the terrible truth before he spoke.

The Developing Horror

I've observed countless individuals in media reports whose worlds had collapsed. Their gaze showing they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of tragedy were rising, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My young one watched me over his laptop. I relocated to contact people separately. By the time we arrived the city, I would witness the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the terrorists who seized her home.

I remember thinking: "None of our friends will survive."

Later, I saw footage revealing blazes erupting from our residence. Nonetheless, later on, I denied the house was destroyed – until my siblings sent me images and proof.

The Fallout

Getting to the city, I contacted the dog breeder. "Conflict has begun," I said. "My parents are likely gone. Our kibbutz was captured by terrorists."

The return trip consisted of trying to contact loved ones while also shielding my child from the terrible visuals that circulated across platforms.

The images during those hours exceeded any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son captured by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me transported to the border in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated digital recordings that defied reality. A senior community member also taken to Gaza. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – captured by attackers, the fear in her eyes devastating.

The Long Wait

It seemed to take forever for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then started the agonizing wait for news. In the evening, one photograph emerged depicting escapees. My parents weren't there.

During the following period, as community members assisted investigators identify victims, we combed digital spaces for evidence of our loved ones. We encountered torture and mutilation. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the situation emerged more fully. My elderly parents – as well as 74 others – were taken hostage from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. During the violence, a quarter of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum emerged from captivity. As she left, she turned and shook hands of the guard. "Hello," she uttered. That gesture – a simple human connection during unspeakable violence – was broadcast everywhere.

More than sixteen months afterward, my parent's physical presence were recovered. He was killed just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. The two years since – our desperate campaign for the captives, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the primary pain.

Both my parents were lifelong peace activists. My parent remains, like most of my family. We recognize that hostility and vengeance don't offer the slightest solace from our suffering.

I write this while crying. With each day, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, not easier. The young ones of my friends remain hostages and the weight of subsequent events is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I call remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed discussing events to fight for hostage release, though grieving remains a luxury we cannot afford – and two years later, our work endures.

No part of this account is intended as support for conflict. I've always been against the fighting from day one. The population across the border experienced pain unimaginably.

I am horrified by political choices, while maintaining that the militants are not benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed their actions that day. They failed the community – creating tragedy on both sides through their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying the violence feels like betraying my dead. My local circle faces rising hostility, while my community there has struggled with the authorities throughout this period facing repeated disappointment again and again.

Looking over, the devastation in Gaza can be seen and emotional. It horrifies me. At the same time, the complete justification that numerous people appear to offer to the organizations makes me despair.