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It unfolded during that morning appearing completely ordinary. I was traveling with my husband and son to pick up a new puppy. The world appeared secure – then everything changed.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed updates concerning the frontier. I called my mum, anticipating her reassuring tone telling me she was safe. Silence. My father was also silent. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his speech instantly communicated the devastating news prior to he spoke.

The Unfolding Horror

I've observed countless individuals in media reports whose existence were destroyed. Their gaze showing they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The deluge of horror were overwhelming, and the debris hadn't settled.

My young one glanced toward me over his laptop. I shifted to make calls in private. When we reached our destination, I would witness the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the militants who seized her house.

I recall believing: "Not a single of our friends would make it."

Later, I saw footage showing fire bursting through our residence. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the home had burned – not until my brothers shared with me images and proof.

The Fallout

Getting to the city, I phoned the kennel owner. "Hostilities has started," I told them. "My family are likely gone. Our neighborhood has been taken over by attackers."

The journey home involved searching for loved ones while also shielding my child from the terrible visuals that circulated across platforms.

The scenes of that day were beyond anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher transported to Gaza in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated digital recordings appearing unbelievable. A senior community member similarly captured across the border. A woman I knew with her two small sons – children I had played with – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the fear visible on her face paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It felt endless for the military to come the area. Then started the terrible uncertainty for updates. In the evening, a single image appeared depicting escapees. My family weren't there.

During the following period, as friends helped forensic teams document losses, we combed the internet for evidence of those missing. We witnessed torture and mutilation. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no indication regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Over time, the circumstances grew more distinct. My aged family – together with 74 others – were taken hostage from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. In the chaos, a quarter of our neighbors were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum emerged from confinement. As she left, she looked back and grasped the hand of the guard. "Hello," she spoke. That moment – an elemental act of humanity within indescribable tragedy – was broadcast globally.

Over 500 days following, my father's remains were returned. He died only kilometers from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and the visual proof remain with me. Everything that followed – our determined activism to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the initial trauma.

My mother and father remained advocates for peace. My mother still is, like other loved ones. We know that hate and revenge don't offer even momentary relief from our suffering.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. As time passes, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The kids from my community remain hostages and the weight of what followed remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I describe focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We typically discussing events to campaign for the captives, while mourning feels like privilege we don't have – and two years later, our campaign endures.

Nothing of this narrative is intended as justification for war. I've always been against this conflict since it started. The population in the territory experienced pain unimaginably.

I'm appalled by political choices, while maintaining that the attackers are not benign resistance fighters. Having seen their actions during those hours. They abandoned their own people – causing pain for all due to their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story with those who defend the violence feels like dishonoring the lost. My local circle confronts unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned versus leadership for two years while experiencing betrayal again and again.

Looking over, the destruction in Gaza is visible and painful. It shocks me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that many seem to grant to the organizations makes me despair.