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It unfolded during that morning looking completely ordinary. I journeyed with my husband and son to pick up a furry companion. The world appeared predictable – until it all shifted.

Checking my device, I noticed updates about the border region. I dialed my parent, expecting her reassuring tone saying everything was fine. Nothing. My dad didn't respond either. Next, my sibling picked up – his tone immediately revealed the terrible truth even as he said anything.

The Developing Tragedy

I've witnessed so many people in media reports whose lives were torn apart. Their expressions showing they didn't understand their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The deluge of horror were rising, with the wreckage was still swirling.

My son looked at me over his laptop. I relocated to make calls alone. By the time we reached the station, I encountered the horrific murder of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the terrorists who seized her home.

I thought to myself: "None of our friends would make it."

Eventually, I saw footage revealing blazes bursting through our residence. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the home had burned – not until my siblings sent me images and proof.

The Consequences

Upon arriving at the city, I phoned the kennel owner. "Hostilities has started," I explained. "My mother and father are probably dead. My community fell to by terrorists."

The journey home involved searching for community members and at the same time shielding my child from the terrible visuals that spread everywhere.

The scenes of that day were beyond all comprehension. A child from our community taken by multiple terrorists. My former educator transported to the territory on a golf cart.

Friends sent digital recordings that defied reality. A senior community member similarly captured across the border. A woman I knew and her little boys – kids I recently saw – captured by militants, the terror visible on her face stunning.

The Long Wait

It seemed endless for help to arrive the kibbutz. Then started the agonizing wait for updates. As time passed, a single image emerged showing those who made it. My mother and father were not among them.

For days and weeks, as community members worked with authorities document losses, we scoured online platforms for evidence of family members. We encountered brutality and violence. There was no recordings showing my parent – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Emerging Picture

Eventually, the situation became clearer. My elderly parents – as well as dozens more – became captives from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. During the violence, one in four of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent emerged from captivity. Prior to leaving, she turned and grasped the hand of the guard. "Peace," she said. That moment – an elemental act of humanity amid unspeakable violence – was transmitted globally.

Over 500 days afterward, my father's remains were returned. He was killed just two miles from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These experiences and the visual proof still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts to save hostages, my parent's awful death, the continuing conflict, the destruction across the border – has intensified the initial trauma.

Both my parents remained campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, similar to most of my family. We understand that animosity and retaliation don't offer any comfort from the pain.

I compose these words through tears. With each day, discussing these events becomes more difficult, rather than simpler. The young ones belonging to companions remain hostages with the burden of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I term dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed telling our experience to advocate for hostage release, despite sorrow remains a luxury we lack – and two years later, our efforts continues.

Not one word of this story is intended as endorsement of violence. I've always been against the fighting from the beginning. The residents of Gaza experienced pain unimaginably.

I'm appalled by political choices, yet emphasizing that the attackers are not benign resistance fighters. Having seen their actions that day. They failed the population – causing suffering for everyone due to their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story with people supporting the attackers' actions appears as dishonoring the lost. The people around me faces rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought with the authorities throughout this period while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

Looking over, the devastation across the frontier can be seen and emotional. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that various individuals seem to grant to the organizations creates discouragement.