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It started on a morning that seemed completely ordinary. I rode with my husband and son to pick up a furry companion. The world appeared predictable – then everything changed.

Opening my phone, I noticed updates about the border region. I dialed my mother, expecting her cheerful voice telling me they were secure. Silence. My parent didn't respond either. Afterward, my brother answered – his voice immediately revealed the terrible truth prior to he spoke.

The Developing Horror

I've witnessed so many people through news coverage whose lives were torn apart. Their gaze revealing they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The torrent of horror were building, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My young one looked at me from his screen. I moved to reach out alone. By the time we reached the station, I saw the terrible killing of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the attackers who seized her home.

I thought to myself: "None of our family will survive."

Eventually, I viewed videos showing fire consuming our house. Despite this, in the following days, I denied the home had burned – until my siblings shared with me photographs and evidence.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at our destination, I called the dog breeder. "A war has started," I told them. "My mother and father are likely gone. Our neighborhood was captured by terrorists."

The return trip consisted of trying to contact friends and family while simultaneously shielding my child from the terrible visuals that were emerging everywhere.

The scenes from that day were beyond all comprehension. A child from our community captured by several attackers. My former educator driven toward the border in a vehicle.

Friends sent social media clips that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted into the territory. A young mother accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – captured by militants, the horror in her eyes stunning.

The Painful Period

It appeared interminable for help to arrive our community. Then started the terrible uncertainty for updates. Later that afternoon, one photograph emerged showing those who made it. My parents weren't there.

During the following period, as community members worked with authorities identify victims, we scoured the internet for signs of family members. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. There was no footage of my father – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the situation grew more distinct. My elderly parents – as well as 74 others – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. During the violence, one in four of the residents were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my mother emerged from confinement. Prior to leaving, she looked back and offered a handshake of the guard. "Shalom," she uttered. That moment – a simple human connection during unspeakable violence – was transmitted globally.

Five hundred and two days following, my father's remains were recovered. He was murdered only kilometers from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and the visual proof continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the original wound.

My family remained advocates for peace. My parent remains, as are many relatives. We recognize that animosity and retaliation won't provide any comfort from the pain.

I write this while crying. With each day, sharing the experience grows harder, instead of improving. The children of my friends remain hostages with the burden of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I term dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We're used to telling our experience to fight for hostage release, while mourning seems unaffordable we lack – and two years later, our efforts persists.

No part of this narrative is intended as support for conflict. I've always been against this conflict since it started. The residents across the border have suffered unimaginably.

I'm shocked by government decisions, but I also insist that the attackers cannot be considered innocent activists. Since I witnessed what they did that day. They betrayed their own people – creating tragedy on both sides due to their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Telling my truth with people supporting the violence seems like dishonoring the lost. My community here faces growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned versus leadership throughout this period while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

From the border, the ruin of the territory is visible and emotional. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that various individuals seem to grant to militant groups causes hopelessness.