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It started that morning appearing completely ordinary. I rode with my husband and son to collect our new dog. The world appeared steady – until reality shattered.

Checking my device, I noticed news from the border. I dialed my mum, expecting her cheerful voice saying she was safe. Silence. My parent didn't respond either. Then, my sibling picked up – his voice already told me the awful reality before he explained.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've observed numerous faces on television whose existence were torn apart. Their expressions revealing they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The torrent of violence were building, with the wreckage was still swirling.

My son watched me across the seat. I shifted to contact people alone. Once we got to our destination, I would witness the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the terrorists who seized her home.

I recall believing: "None of our friends could live through this."

Later, I viewed videos revealing blazes consuming our house. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I denied the home had burned – not until my brothers shared with me visual confirmation.

The Consequences

Getting to the station, I called the puppy provider. "A war has started," I explained. "My parents are probably dead. My community was captured by terrorists."

The ride back was spent searching for loved ones while simultaneously shielding my child from the horrific images that spread everywhere.

The footage of that day transcended any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son seized by armed militants. My mathematics teacher driven toward Gaza using transportation.

Friends sent Telegram videos that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend also taken across the border. A young mother accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – captured by attackers, the terror in her eyes devastating.

The Long Wait

It seemed interminable for help to arrive our community. Then began the agonizing wait for news. Later that afternoon, one photograph appeared depicting escapees. My family were not among them.

Over many days, as community members helped forensic teams identify victims, we searched online platforms for evidence of our loved ones. We encountered atrocities and horrors. There was no recordings showing my parent – no indication regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the circumstances grew more distinct. My senior mother and father – as well as dozens more – became captives from their home. My father was 83, Mom was 85. In the chaos, one in four of the residents lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother was released from captivity. Prior to leaving, she looked back and offered a handshake of the militant. "Hello," she uttered. That image – a simple human connection within unspeakable violence – was broadcast globally.

More than sixteen months afterward, my parent's physical presence were recovered. He was murdered only kilometers from our home.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the recorded evidence remain with me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the initial trauma.

Both my parents had always been campaigners for reconciliation. My parent remains, like other loved ones. We know that hostility and vengeance cannot bring any comfort from the pain.

I compose these words through tears. Over the months, discussing these events grows harder, rather than simpler. The young ones of my friends are still captive and the weight of the aftermath feels heavy.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I call remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We're used to telling our experience to advocate for freedom, though grieving seems unaffordable we don't have – and two years later, our campaign endures.

Not one word of this narrative serves as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed the fighting from the beginning. The people of Gaza have suffered terribly.

I'm shocked by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the attackers are not benign resistance fighters. Because I know their actions during those hours. They failed the community – causing suffering for everyone because of their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Telling my truth with people supporting what happened feels like dishonoring the lost. My local circle faces growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned against its government for two years and been betrayed repeatedly.

From the border, the devastation of the territory can be seen and painful. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that various individuals appear to offer to the attackers creates discouragement.