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It started that morning that seemed entirely routine. I was traveling with my husband and son to pick up a furry companion. Everything seemed secure – before it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I discovered news about the border region. I called my mother, expecting her cheerful voice saying they were secure. Silence. My father didn't respond either. Afterward, I reached my brother – his speech instantly communicated the awful reality even as he said anything.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've witnessed countless individuals in media reports whose worlds were torn apart. Their gaze revealing they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The deluge of tragedy were rising, and the debris was still swirling.

My young one looked at me from his screen. I shifted to reach out in private. By the time we arrived our destination, I saw the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the terrorists who seized her house.

I recall believing: "None of our family will survive."

Eventually, I saw footage showing fire erupting from our residence. Despite this, in the following days, I couldn't believe the home had burned – not until my siblings provided images and proof.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at the station, I contacted the kennel owner. "Hostilities has erupted," I told them. "My parents are likely gone. Our kibbutz fell to by militants."

The return trip consisted of searching for friends and family and at the same time guarding my young one from the awful footage that circulated through networks.

The scenes during those hours transcended anything we could imagine. A child from our community taken by armed militants. My former educator taken in the direction of Gaza using transportation.

Friends sent Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend also taken to Gaza. A woman I knew and her little boys – kids I recently saw – seized by armed terrorists, the terror in her eyes paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It appeared to take forever for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then began the terrible uncertainty for updates. Later that afternoon, one photograph circulated depicting escapees. My mother and father were not among them.

For days and weeks, while neighbors helped forensic teams locate the missing, we combed online platforms for signs of those missing. We encountered torture and mutilation. There was no recordings showing my parent – no clue about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the reality emerged more fully. My elderly parents – together with dozens more – were abducted from their home. My father was 83, my mother 85. In the chaos, 25 percent of our neighbors were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent was released from confinement. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of the guard. "Shalom," she uttered. That image – an elemental act of humanity within unimaginable horror – was transmitted everywhere.

Over 500 days following, Dad's body were recovered. He was killed a short distance from where we lived.

The Persistent Wound

These events and their documentation remain with me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign to save hostages, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the initial trauma.

Both my parents remained peace activists. Mom continues, similar to most of my family. We understand that hate and revenge don't offer the slightest solace from our suffering.

I share these thoughts while crying. Over the months, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, not easier. The kids of my friends are still captive along with the pressure of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I describe remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We typically sharing our story to campaign for hostage release, though grieving feels like privilege we don't have – and two years later, our efforts endures.

No part of this story represents endorsement of violence. I've always been against hostilities from day one. The residents of Gaza experienced pain terribly.

I am horrified by government decisions, while maintaining that the attackers cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Because I know their actions on October 7th. They failed the community – ensuring pain for all because of their violent beliefs.

The Community Split

Telling my truth among individuals justifying the violence feels like failing the deceased. My local circle faces unprecedented antisemitism, and our people back home has struggled with the authorities for two years and been betrayed repeatedly.

From the border, the destruction across the frontier appears clearly and emotional. It horrifies me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that many seem to grant to the attackers causes hopelessness.