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It started during that morning looking completely ordinary. I was traveling with my husband and son to collect a furry companion. Life felt steady – then it all shifted.

Checking my device, I saw reports about the border region. I dialed my mother, anticipating her reassuring tone saying they were secure. No answer. My dad was also silent. Next, my brother answered – his tone instantly communicated the terrible truth prior to he said anything.

The Developing Nightmare

I've seen countless individuals through news coverage whose existence were torn apart. Their eyes revealing they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Now it was me. The deluge of violence were overwhelming, with the wreckage was still swirling.

My child looked at me from his screen. I moved to reach out separately. By the time we arrived the station, I would witness the horrific murder of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the terrorists who captured her home.

I thought to myself: "Not a single of our family will survive."

At some point, I saw footage revealing blazes erupting from our residence. Even then, in the following days, I refused to accept the house was destroyed – until my family provided photographs and evidence.

The Fallout

Getting to our destination, I called the dog breeder. "Hostilities has erupted," I told them. "My parents may not survive. Our kibbutz fell to by attackers."

The return trip was spent searching for community members while simultaneously protecting my son from the horrific images that circulated through networks.

The images from that day exceeded any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son seized by several attackers. Someone who taught me driven toward the border using transportation.

People shared digital recordings that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend also taken into the territory. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – boys I knew well – captured by armed terrorists, the horror in her eyes paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It seemed to take forever for the military to come the area. Then started the painful anticipation for news. As time passed, a single image appeared depicting escapees. My mother and father were not among them.

During the following period, while neighbors helped forensic teams identify victims, we scoured online platforms for evidence of family members. We witnessed brutality and violence. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no indication about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Over time, the situation emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – together with 74 others – were abducted from their home. My father was 83, my mother 85. Amid the terror, a quarter of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my mother was released from captivity. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of the militant. "Shalom," she uttered. That image – a basic human interaction amid unimaginable horror – was shared everywhere.

Over 500 days afterward, Dad's body were returned. He was killed just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and their documentation continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign to save hostages, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has compounded the primary pain.

My family had always been peace activists. Mom continues, similar to most of my family. We know that animosity and retaliation won't provide even momentary relief from our suffering.

I share these thoughts while crying. As time passes, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, not easier. The young ones of my friends continue imprisoned and the weight of subsequent events is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I describe focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed sharing our story to fight for freedom, though grieving feels like privilege we cannot afford – now, our work endures.

Nothing of this narrative represents support for conflict. I have consistently opposed hostilities from day one. The residents of Gaza have suffered unimaginably.

I am horrified by political choices, but I also insist that the militants shouldn't be viewed as innocent activists. Because I know their atrocities on October 7th. They abandoned their own people – causing suffering for everyone through their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story with people supporting what happened appears as dishonoring the lost. The people around me experiences rising hostility, while my community there has struggled versus leadership for two years and been betrayed multiple times.

Looking over, the devastation in Gaza appears clearly and painful. It shocks me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that many seem willing to provide to the attackers causes hopelessness.