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It unfolded on a morning that seemed perfectly normal. I journeyed with my husband and son to pick up our new dog. Life felt secure – until everything changed.

Glancing at my screen, I saw updates from the border. I tried reaching my mum, hoping for her reassuring tone telling me they were secure. Silence. My dad didn't respond either. Then, I reached my brother – his voice immediately revealed the terrible truth even as he said anything.

The Developing Tragedy

I've witnessed countless individuals in media reports whose existence were torn apart. Their eyes demonstrating they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Now it was me. The deluge of horror were building, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My son looked at me across the seat. I moved to make calls in private. Once we reached the station, I would witness the horrific murder of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the attackers who took over her home.

I recall believing: "None of our loved ones would make it."

At some point, I saw footage showing fire consuming our family home. Nonetheless, in the following days, I refused to accept the house was destroyed – before my family sent me images and proof.

The Consequences

Upon arriving at the city, I contacted the kennel owner. "A war has started," I said. "My parents may not survive. My community fell to by militants."

The ride back was spent attempting to reach friends and family while also shielding my child from the terrible visuals that were emerging everywhere.

The images from that day transcended any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son seized by armed militants. My former educator transported to the border on a golf cart.

People shared social media clips that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted across the border. My friend's daughter and her little boys – boys I knew well – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the horror in her eyes paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It seemed endless for the military to come the kibbutz. Then began the terrible uncertainty for information. In the evening, one photograph appeared of survivors. My mother and father were not among them.

Over many days, while neighbors helped forensic teams locate the missing, we combed the internet for traces of those missing. We encountered torture and mutilation. There was no footage of my father – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Gradually, the circumstances became clearer. My aged family – along with 74 others – were abducted from the community. My father was 83, my mother 85. During the violence, 25 percent of the residents lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum was released from captivity. Before departing, she turned and grasped the hand of the militant. "Peace," she said. That moment – a basic human interaction amid unimaginable horror – was broadcast globally.

More than sixteen months later, Dad's body were recovered. He was killed only kilometers from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These experiences and the visual proof continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has intensified the initial trauma.

My family remained advocates for peace. My mother still is, similar to other loved ones. We understand that hate and revenge won't provide any comfort from this tragedy.

I compose these words while crying. With each day, discussing these events grows harder, rather than simpler. The kids belonging to companions continue imprisoned and the weight of what followed remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I describe dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We typically sharing our story to advocate for the captives, despite sorrow seems unaffordable we lack – and two years later, our efforts continues.

No part of this narrative is intended as support for conflict. I continuously rejected the fighting since it started. The residents across the border experienced pain unimaginably.

I'm shocked by leadership actions, while maintaining that the attackers cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Having seen their atrocities that day. They betrayed the community – ensuring tragedy on both sides through their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience with those who defend what happened seems like failing the deceased. My community here faces unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled versus leadership for two years while experiencing betrayal again and again.

Across the fields, the ruin across the frontier appears clearly and visceral. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that many seem willing to provide to militant groups creates discouragement.