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It started on a morning looking completely ordinary. I journeyed with my husband and son to welcome a furry companion. Life felt steady – before reality shattered.

Opening my phone, I noticed updates from the border. I dialed my mum, expecting her reassuring tone explaining she was safe. Nothing. My parent didn't respond either. Then, I reached my brother – his voice immediately revealed the devastating news before he said anything.

The Unfolding Horror

I've observed numerous faces through news coverage whose lives were destroyed. Their eyes demonstrating they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The torrent of tragedy were rising, and the debris remained chaotic.

My son glanced toward me across the seat. I moved to make calls separately. When we got to the city, I would witness the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the terrorists who took over her residence.

I remember thinking: "Not one of our family could live through this."

At some point, I viewed videos showing fire consuming our house. Nonetheless, in the following days, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – before my brothers sent me images and proof.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at the station, I contacted the dog breeder. "Hostilities has begun," I said. "My family may not survive. My community has been taken over by attackers."

The ride back involved searching for loved ones while simultaneously shielding my child from the horrific images that circulated everywhere.

The footage from that day transcended any possible expectation. A child from our community taken by armed militants. My mathematics teacher transported to the border in a vehicle.

People shared digital recordings that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion also taken into the territory. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – children I had played with – being rounded up by militants, the horror visible on her face devastating.

The Long Wait

It felt endless for assistance to reach the area. Then began the painful anticipation for information. In the evening, one photograph emerged of survivors. My family were missing.

For days and weeks, while neighbors worked with authorities identify victims, we combed online platforms for traces of our loved ones. We witnessed torture and mutilation. There was no recordings showing my parent – no indication about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the situation became clearer. My aged family – as well as numerous community members – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my other parent was elderly. In the chaos, a quarter of our community members were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mum was released from confinement. As she left, she turned and grasped the hand of her captor. "Hello," she spoke. That gesture – a basic human interaction during unimaginable horror – was shared globally.

Five hundred and two days later, my parent's physical presence were recovered. He was killed just two miles from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and the visual proof still terrorize me. The two years since – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has compounded the primary pain.

Both my parents had always been advocates for peace. My parent remains, like many relatives. We know that hostility and vengeance cannot bring any comfort from the pain.

I write this through tears. As time passes, discussing these events becomes more difficult, not easier. The kids belonging to companions remain hostages with the burden of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I term focusing on the trauma "immersed in suffering". We're used to discussing events to advocate for hostage release, while mourning feels like privilege we lack – after 24 months, our efforts continues.

No part of this narrative serves as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed the fighting from day one. The residents across the border endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by political choices, yet emphasizing that the attackers shouldn't be viewed as innocent activists. Since I witnessed their actions on October 7th. They abandoned their own people – creating tragedy on both sides due to their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Discussing my experience with people supporting what happened feels like betraying my dead. My local circle faces unprecedented antisemitism, while my community there has struggled against its government throughout this period and been betrayed again and again.

Across the fields, the devastation in Gaza appears clearly and painful. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that numerous people seem willing to provide to the attackers makes me despair.