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It started during that morning appearing perfectly normal. I rode with my husband and son to collect a furry companion. Everything seemed steady – before reality shattered.

Checking my device, I discovered reports concerning the frontier. I called my mother, expecting her reassuring tone saying everything was fine. Nothing. My father couldn't be reached. Next, my sibling picked up – his speech already told me the awful reality prior to he said anything.

The Emerging Horror

I've witnessed numerous faces in media reports whose existence were torn apart. Their eyes revealing they couldn't comprehend their loss. Now it was me. The floodwaters of tragedy were overwhelming, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My child looked at me over his laptop. I moved to make calls in private. When we arrived our destination, I saw the terrible killing of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the attackers who seized her house.

I thought to myself: "Not one of our friends would make it."

Eventually, I viewed videos revealing blazes bursting through our house. Even then, for days afterward, I denied the building was gone – until my brothers sent me visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

Getting to our destination, I contacted the dog breeder. "A war has begun," I explained. "My family are likely gone. Our neighborhood fell to by attackers."

The journey home consisted of attempting to reach community members and at the same time protecting my son from the horrific images that circulated across platforms.

The images during those hours transcended anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son captured by several attackers. My mathematics teacher transported to Gaza using transportation.

People shared digital recordings that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion likewise abducted across the border. A woman I knew and her little boys – boys I knew well – captured by armed terrorists, the horror visible on her face paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt to take forever for the military to come the area. Then began the painful anticipation for information. Later that afternoon, one photograph emerged of survivors. My parents were not among them.

Over many days, while neighbors helped forensic teams document losses, we searched the internet for signs of family members. We encountered torture and mutilation. We never found footage of my father – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Emerging Picture

Eventually, the circumstances became clearer. My aged family – as well as dozens more – became captives from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. In the chaos, one in four of the residents were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my parent was released from captivity. Before departing, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of the guard. "Shalom," she uttered. That moment – a basic human interaction during unimaginable horror – was shared globally.

Five hundred and two days later, my father's remains were returned. He was murdered a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and the visual proof still terrorize me. Everything that followed – our determined activism for the captives, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the devastation in Gaza – has compounded the original wound.

My family were lifelong peace activists. Mom continues, like other loved ones. We recognize that hostility and vengeance won't provide the slightest solace from the pain.

I share these thoughts while crying. As time passes, discussing these events grows harder, rather than simpler. The young ones belonging to companions remain hostages with the burden of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I term remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We typically discussing events to advocate for hostage release, while mourning feels like privilege we lack – after 24 months, our work persists.

Nothing of this narrative represents support for conflict. I've always been against the fighting from the beginning. The population of Gaza have suffered unimaginably.

I'm shocked by government decisions, while maintaining that the attackers are not benign resistance fighters. Having seen their atrocities that day. They betrayed the community – creating pain for all due to their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth with people supporting what happened feels like dishonoring the lost. My community here faces unprecedented antisemitism, and our people back home has struggled with the authorities consistently facing repeated disappointment multiple times.

Across the fields, the devastation in Gaza can be seen and painful. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that numerous people appear to offer to the organizations makes me despair.