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It unfolded during that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I was traveling with my husband and son to collect a new puppy. Life felt steady – before everything changed.

Opening my phone, I noticed updates from the border. I dialed my mum, expecting her cheerful voice explaining she was safe. Nothing. My dad couldn't be reached. Afterward, my brother answered – his tone instantly communicated the terrible truth even as he said anything.

The Unfolding Horror

I've observed so many people on television whose lives were torn apart. Their gaze showing they didn't understand their loss. Suddenly it was us. The torrent of violence were overwhelming, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My child glanced toward me across the seat. I relocated to reach out separately. By the time we arrived our destination, I would witness the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the militants who seized her home.

I thought to myself: "Not one of our loved ones could live through this."

At some point, I viewed videos depicting flames erupting from our house. Despite this, later on, I denied the building was gone – not until my family shared with me visual confirmation.

The Consequences

When we reached the station, I phoned the puppy provider. "A war has started," I said. "My parents are probably dead. Our neighborhood fell to by terrorists."

The journey home consisted of attempting to reach loved ones while simultaneously shielding my child from the awful footage that circulated through networks.

The images from that day exceeded anything we could imagine. A child from our community seized by armed militants. My former educator driven toward Gaza in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated social media clips that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend also taken to Gaza. A young mother with her two small sons – boys I knew well – being rounded up by militants, the horror in her eyes devastating.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt interminable for help to arrive our community. Then began the terrible uncertainty for updates. In the evening, a single image emerged of survivors. My mother and father were missing.

During the following period, as friends worked with authorities locate the missing, we scoured online platforms for signs of those missing. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Gradually, the reality became clearer. My senior mother and father – together with dozens more – were abducted from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my mother 85. In the chaos, one in four of the residents were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mother was released from captivity. Before departing, she looked back and offered a handshake of the militant. "Shalom," she spoke. That moment – an elemental act of humanity during unspeakable violence – was broadcast globally.

Five hundred and two days following, my father's remains were returned. He was killed just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and the recorded evidence remain with me. The two years since – our determined activism for the captives, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the initial trauma.

My family were lifelong advocates for peace. My parent remains, similar to other loved ones. We know that animosity and retaliation won't provide any comfort from this tragedy.

I write this while crying. With each day, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The children belonging to companions continue imprisoned with the burden of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I call remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We're used to telling our experience to campaign for freedom, though grieving feels like privilege we don't have – after 24 months, our work persists.

Nothing of this narrative serves as support for conflict. I have consistently opposed the fighting from day one. The residents across the border have suffered terribly.

I'm appalled by political choices, while maintaining that the attackers are not benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed their atrocities that day. They abandoned their own people – ensuring tragedy on both sides due to their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story among individuals justifying what happened seems like dishonoring the lost. My local circle confronts rising hostility, while my community there has campaigned with the authorities consistently while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

Looking over, the devastation in Gaza appears clearly and visceral. It shocks me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that numerous people seem to grant to the attackers causes hopelessness.