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It began that morning appearing perfectly normal. I was traveling with my husband and son to collect our new dog. Life felt secure – then everything changed.

Checking my device, I discovered updates concerning the frontier. I tried reaching my mum, hoping for her calm response telling me she was safe. No answer. My dad didn't respond either. Then, my sibling picked up – his speech already told me the awful reality even as he spoke.

The Emerging Horror

I've observed numerous faces through news coverage whose worlds were destroyed. Their eyes showing they couldn't comprehend their loss. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of tragedy were rising, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My young one glanced toward me across the seat. I shifted to make calls in private. When we arrived our destination, I would witness the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the militants who took over her residence.

I remember thinking: "None of our loved ones will survive."

Eventually, I viewed videos revealing blazes consuming our residence. Even then, for days afterward, I denied the building was gone – before my family sent me photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

Getting to the station, I phoned the kennel owner. "Hostilities has erupted," I explained. "My parents are likely gone. Our kibbutz was captured by attackers."

The return trip consisted of attempting to reach friends and family and at the same time guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that were emerging through networks.

The scenes of that day exceeded any possible expectation. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by armed militants. My former educator driven toward the territory using transportation.

Friends sent social media clips that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion also taken into the territory. A young mother accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – seized by armed terrorists, the fear visible on her face devastating.

The Long Wait

It seemed endless for help to arrive the kibbutz. Then commenced the painful anticipation for updates. In the evening, a lone picture appeared showing those who made it. My mother and father were missing.

For days and weeks, while neighbors worked with authorities locate the missing, we searched the internet for evidence of those missing. We saw brutality and violence. We never found recordings showing my parent – no clue regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Over time, the situation emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – together with numerous community members – became captives from their home. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, a quarter of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

Seventeen days later, my mother was released from imprisonment. As she left, she turned and offered a handshake of her captor. "Hello," she spoke. That image – an elemental act of humanity amid indescribable tragedy – was broadcast everywhere.

More than sixteen months later, Dad's body were recovered. He was murdered just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has intensified the initial trauma.

Both my parents had always been campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, as are other loved ones. We know that hostility and vengeance won't provide even momentary relief from the pain.

I share these thoughts through tears. With each day, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, not easier. The children belonging to companions are still captive and the weight of what followed remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I call focusing on the trauma "immersed in suffering". We typically telling our experience to campaign for freedom, despite sorrow remains a luxury we lack – and two years later, our efforts continues.

Nothing of this story serves as justification for war. I've always been against this conflict from day one. The people in the territory endured tragedy terribly.

I'm shocked by leadership actions, but I also insist that the organization cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Having seen their atrocities that day. They betrayed the community – creating tragedy on both sides because of their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying what happened seems like failing the deceased. The people around me confronts rising hostility, and our people back home has fought against its government consistently and been betrayed repeatedly.

Across the fields, the destruction in Gaza is visible and painful. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that numerous people appear to offer to the organizations makes me despair.