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It began on a morning looking perfectly normal. I rode with my husband and son to pick up our new dog. The world appeared steady – until reality shattered.

Opening my phone, I discovered news about the border region. I dialed my mum, expecting her reassuring tone saying they were secure. Silence. My father was also silent. Next, my brother answered – his speech instantly communicated the awful reality even as he explained.

The Unfolding Horror

I've witnessed numerous faces in media reports whose existence were torn apart. Their eyes showing they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of tragedy were rising, and the debris remained chaotic.

My son watched me from his screen. I shifted to contact people separately. Once we reached our destination, I encountered the terrible killing of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – shown in real-time by the militants who captured her home.

I remember thinking: "None of our friends would make it."

Later, I witnessed recordings depicting flames bursting through our house. Despite this, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the home had burned – not until my siblings shared with me photographs and evidence.

The Consequences

Getting to our destination, I contacted the dog breeder. "A war has erupted," I told them. "My family may not survive. Our neighborhood fell to by attackers."

The ride back involved attempting to reach loved ones while simultaneously guarding my young one from the awful footage that circulated through networks.

The footage during those hours exceeded all comprehension. A child from our community seized by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me taken in the direction of Gaza in a vehicle.

Friends sent digital recordings that defied reality. A senior community member also taken to Gaza. My friend's daughter and her little boys – kids I recently saw – seized by armed terrorists, the fear apparent in her expression stunning.

The Long Wait

It appeared interminable for help to arrive our community. Then started the painful anticipation for updates. As time passed, a single image appeared depicting escapees. My parents were missing.

For days and weeks, as community members assisted investigators locate the missing, we scoured online platforms for signs of those missing. We saw torture and mutilation. We never found footage of my father – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the circumstances became clearer. My elderly parents – along with 74 others – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my mother 85. During the violence, 25 percent of the residents were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my parent emerged from confinement. As she left, she looked back and shook hands of the militant. "Hello," she spoke. That moment – a basic human interaction within unspeakable violence – was broadcast everywhere.

Five hundred and two days following, my parent's physical presence came back. He died a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and the recorded evidence remain with me. The two years since – our determined activism for the captives, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the devastation in Gaza – has compounded the original wound.

My family were lifelong advocates for peace. My mother still is, like most of my family. We know that hostility and vengeance cannot bring any comfort from our suffering.

I share these thoughts while crying. With each day, discussing these events becomes more difficult, not easier. The young ones from my community remain hostages along with the pressure of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I call remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed sharing our story to fight for the captives, despite sorrow feels like privilege we cannot afford – now, our campaign persists.

Nothing of this narrative is intended as endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected this conflict from the beginning. The residents across the border experienced pain unimaginably.

I am horrified by government decisions, but I also insist that the militants shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed their atrocities that day. They abandoned their own people – causing tragedy on both sides due to their violent beliefs.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience with those who defend what happened appears as failing the deceased. My local circle faces unprecedented antisemitism, while my community there has struggled with the authorities consistently and been betrayed repeatedly.

Across the fields, the devastation across the frontier appears clearly and visceral. It appalls me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that numerous people seem to grant to militant groups causes hopelessness.