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It started during that morning looking perfectly normal. I was traveling with my husband and son to welcome our new dog. Life felt predictable – until it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I discovered reports about the border region. I dialed my mother, hoping for her calm response saying everything was fine. Silence. My parent couldn't be reached. Next, my brother answered – his voice immediately revealed the terrible truth before he spoke.

The Unfolding Tragedy

I've seen numerous faces on television whose lives had collapsed. Their gaze showing they didn't understand their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The torrent of violence were rising, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My son looked at me from his screen. I moved to reach out in private. Once we arrived the station, I saw the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the militants who captured her house.

I remember thinking: "None of our family would make it."

Eventually, I saw footage showing fire bursting through our residence. Even then, for days afterward, I refused to accept the building was gone – until my brothers provided visual confirmation.

The Consequences

When we reached the city, I called the puppy provider. "A war has started," I explained. "My mother and father are probably dead. Our kibbutz has been taken over by terrorists."

The return trip consisted of searching for loved ones and at the same time shielding my child from the awful footage that circulated through networks.

The images during those hours were beyond anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by armed militants. My mathematics teacher driven toward the border on a golf cart.

Individuals circulated social media clips that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured across the border. A young mother with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – seized by militants, the terror visible on her face devastating.

The Painful Period

It seemed endless for the military to come the area. Then began the painful anticipation for updates. Later that afternoon, one photograph emerged depicting escapees. My parents weren't there.

Over many days, as friends assisted investigators identify victims, we combed digital spaces for traces of those missing. We witnessed brutality and violence. We never found recordings showing my parent – no indication regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Gradually, the circumstances grew more distinct. My senior mother and father – as well as numerous community members – were taken hostage from the community. My parent was in his eighties, my mother 85. Amid the terror, one in four of the residents were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mum emerged from imprisonment. As she left, she looked back and offered a handshake of the guard. "Peace," she spoke. That moment – a basic human interaction within unimaginable horror – was shared everywhere.

Five hundred and two days later, my father's remains were recovered. He was murdered just two miles from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and the visual proof still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the original wound.

Both my parents were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, like other loved ones. We recognize that hostility and vengeance cannot bring the slightest solace from this tragedy.

I compose these words while crying. As time passes, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The kids belonging to companions continue imprisoned with the burden of what followed is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I term remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We're used to sharing our story to advocate for hostage release, though grieving remains a luxury we cannot afford – after 24 months, our efforts continues.

Not one word of this story represents justification for war. I have consistently opposed the fighting from day one. The residents in the territory experienced pain terribly.

I'm shocked by leadership actions, while maintaining that the militants cannot be considered innocent activists. Since I witnessed their actions during those hours. They betrayed their own people – creating tragedy on both sides because of their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story among individuals justifying the attackers' actions feels like betraying my dead. My community here faces unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned against its government throughout this period and been betrayed multiple times.

Across the fields, the ruin of the territory appears clearly and visceral. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that various individuals seem willing to provide to militant groups causes hopelessness.