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It started during that morning appearing entirely routine. I was traveling with my husband and son to collect our new dog. The world appeared secure – then everything changed.

Glancing at my screen, I saw updates concerning the frontier. I called my mother, hoping for her cheerful voice explaining she was safe. No answer. My father couldn't be reached. Afterward, I reached my brother – his voice already told me the awful reality even as he spoke.

The Unfolding Tragedy

I've observed so many people in media reports whose lives were destroyed. Their gaze demonstrating they couldn't comprehend their loss. Then it became our turn. The torrent of violence were overwhelming, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My son glanced toward me over his laptop. I shifted to make calls in private. When we got to the station, I encountered the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the attackers who took over her home.

I recall believing: "Not one of our loved ones will survive."

Later, I saw footage showing fire erupting from our residence. Nonetheless, in the following days, I couldn't believe the home had burned – until my brothers sent me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at our destination, I contacted the puppy provider. "Conflict has begun," I explained. "My parents are likely gone. Our kibbutz was captured by militants."

The journey home was spent searching for community members and at the same time shielding my child from the awful footage that were emerging across platforms.

The images of that day were beyond any possible expectation. A child from our community taken by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of the border using transportation.

Individuals circulated digital recordings appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend also taken into the territory. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – children I had played with – seized by militants, the horror in her eyes devastating.

The Long Wait

It appeared endless for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then began the terrible uncertainty for information. Later that afternoon, a lone picture emerged depicting escapees. My parents weren't there.

Over many days, while neighbors worked with authorities identify victims, we searched digital spaces for signs of our loved ones. We encountered brutality and violence. There was no footage of my father – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the circumstances emerged more fully. My aged family – together with 74 others – became captives from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. Amid the terror, a quarter of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent was released from imprisonment. Before departing, she turned and shook hands of her captor. "Hello," she spoke. That gesture – a simple human connection amid indescribable tragedy – was broadcast globally.

Over 500 days afterward, Dad's body came back. He died a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and the visual proof still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to save hostages, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has intensified the initial trauma.

My mother and father remained campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, as are other loved ones. We understand that hostility and vengeance cannot bring the slightest solace from our suffering.

I write this through tears. With each day, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The young ones of my friends are still captive along with the pressure of what followed feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I call remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We're used to telling our experience to campaign for the captives, despite sorrow remains a luxury we don't have – now, our work persists.

Not one word of this narrative serves as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed this conflict from the beginning. The residents in the territory experienced pain unimaginably.

I'm shocked by government decisions, while maintaining that the militants cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Having seen what they did that day. They failed the population – ensuring pain for all through their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story among individuals justifying the violence feels like failing the deceased. The people around me confronts rising hostility, while my community there has campaigned with the authorities consistently and been betrayed repeatedly.

Across the fields, the devastation across the frontier is visible and emotional. It appalls me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that many seem to grant to the attackers makes me despair.