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It began during that morning that seemed perfectly normal. I journeyed accompanied by my family to pick up our new dog. The world appeared secure – then reality shattered.

Opening my phone, I discovered news from the border. I tried reaching my mum, expecting her cheerful voice telling me they were secure. No answer. My father couldn't be reached. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his tone immediately revealed the awful reality prior to he said anything.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've observed so many people in media reports whose worlds were torn apart. Their eyes revealing they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Now it was me. The floodwaters of tragedy were building, amid the destruction was still swirling.

My child glanced toward me over his laptop. I shifted to contact people alone. By the time we got to the station, I would witness the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the terrorists who took over her residence.

I remember thinking: "None of our family could live through this."

At some point, I witnessed recordings showing fire consuming our residence. Even then, later on, I denied the building was gone – until my family shared with me visual confirmation.

The Consequences

When we reached the city, I called the kennel owner. "Hostilities has started," I said. "My parents may not survive. Our kibbutz has been taken over by terrorists."

The return trip consisted of attempting to reach loved ones while simultaneously guarding my young one from the horrific images that spread through networks.

The footage of that day transcended anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son taken by several attackers. My mathematics teacher driven toward the border on a golf cart.

Individuals circulated social media clips that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion likewise abducted to Gaza. A woman I knew with her two small sons – boys I knew well – captured by armed terrorists, the horror visible on her face paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It appeared to take forever for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then began the painful anticipation for updates. As time passed, a lone picture appeared depicting escapees. My family were missing.

During the following period, while neighbors assisted investigators locate the missing, we scoured digital spaces for signs of our loved ones. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. There was no footage of my father – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the circumstances became clearer. My aged family – together with numerous community members – were taken hostage from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. In the chaos, one in four of the residents were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother emerged from confinement. Before departing, she turned and offered a handshake of the guard. "Hello," she uttered. That moment – a simple human connection amid unspeakable violence – was broadcast worldwide.

Five hundred and two days later, Dad's body were recovered. He died only kilometers from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and the visual proof still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has compounded the initial trauma.

My family had always been campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, similar to many relatives. We understand that hostility and vengeance cannot bring the slightest solace from the pain.

I write this through tears. As time passes, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, not easier. The kids from my community are still captive and the weight of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I term focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We're used to sharing our story to fight for the captives, while mourning seems unaffordable we don't have – and two years later, our work persists.

Nothing of this narrative is intended as support for conflict. I've always been against this conflict from the beginning. The people in the territory endured tragedy unimaginably.

I'm shocked by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the organization shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed what they did that day. They betrayed the population – ensuring tragedy on both sides due to their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience with people supporting the attackers' actions seems like betraying my dead. My local circle confronts rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought against its government throughout this period while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

Across the fields, the ruin across the frontier appears clearly and painful. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the moral carte blanche that various individuals seem willing to provide to the organizations creates discouragement.