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It unfolded during that morning looking perfectly normal. I rode with my husband and son to pick up our new dog. The world appeared secure – until everything changed.

Opening my phone, I noticed updates from the border. I called my parent, anticipating her reassuring tone telling me she was safe. Nothing. My father was also silent. Next, my brother answered – his voice already told me the terrible truth even as he explained.

The Unfolding Horror

I've witnessed countless individuals through news coverage whose existence were torn apart. Their eyes revealing they couldn't comprehend their loss. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of violence were rising, with the wreckage was still swirling.

My son watched me from his screen. I relocated to make calls separately. By the time we reached the station, I encountered the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the terrorists who took over her house.

I thought to myself: "None of our friends could live through this."

Eventually, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes consuming our family home. Nonetheless, later on, I denied the house was destroyed – until my siblings provided visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

Getting to the station, I called the puppy provider. "Conflict has started," I said. "My mother and father are likely gone. Our kibbutz fell to by terrorists."

The return trip involved attempting to reach friends and family while simultaneously guarding my young one from the awful footage that were emerging everywhere.

The footage from that day transcended anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son captured by multiple terrorists. My former educator driven toward the border using transportation.

Individuals circulated social media clips that defied reality. A senior community member likewise abducted across the border. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – boys I knew well – seized by attackers, the horror visible on her face devastating.

The Painful Period

It felt endless for assistance to reach our community. Then started the agonizing wait for news. In the evening, a single image circulated depicting escapees. My mother and father weren't there.

For days and weeks, as community members worked with authorities identify victims, we searched the internet for evidence of those missing. We saw torture and mutilation. We never found footage of my father – no indication about his final moments.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the situation emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – along with 74 others – became captives from the community. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. In the chaos, a quarter of the residents were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my mother was released from confinement. As she left, she turned and shook hands of the guard. "Hello," she said. That moment – a simple human connection within indescribable tragedy – was broadcast everywhere.

More than sixteen months following, Dad's body came back. He was murdered only kilometers from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the primary pain.

My family remained advocates for peace. Mom continues, like many relatives. We recognize that hate and revenge don't offer any comfort from this tragedy.

I compose these words through tears. As time passes, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The kids from my community are still captive and the weight of what followed feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I call remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We're used to discussing events to campaign for freedom, despite sorrow feels like privilege we lack – after 24 months, our campaign continues.

No part of this story serves as justification for war. I have consistently opposed hostilities from day one. The population of Gaza endured tragedy unimaginably.

I am horrified by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the attackers are not innocent activists. Because I know their atrocities on October 7th. They betrayed the community – creating pain for all due to their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience with people supporting the attackers' actions feels like betraying my dead. My community here faces rising hostility, while my community there has struggled versus leadership throughout this period while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

Looking over, the ruin of the territory can be seen and painful. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the moral carte blanche that many seem to grant to the attackers makes me despair.