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It began during that morning that seemed entirely routine. I was traveling with my husband and son to pick up our new dog. Life felt predictable – before it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I saw reports from the border. I tried reaching my mum, expecting her reassuring tone telling me everything was fine. Nothing. My father couldn't be reached. Afterward, I reached my brother – his tone immediately revealed the awful reality before he explained.

The Unfolding Horror

I've observed numerous faces in media reports whose worlds were torn apart. Their eyes demonstrating they didn't understand their loss. Then it became our turn. The torrent of violence were building, with the wreckage was still swirling.

My child watched me from his screen. I shifted to make calls alone. When we reached the city, I encountered the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – a senior citizen – shown in real-time by the terrorists who took over her residence.

I thought to myself: "Not a single of our loved ones could live through this."

Later, I saw footage revealing blazes erupting from our family home. Even then, for days afterward, I denied the building was gone – not until my family shared with me visual confirmation.

The Consequences

When we reached the city, I contacted the kennel owner. "Conflict has erupted," I told them. "My parents may not survive. Our kibbutz was captured by militants."

The return trip was spent attempting to reach loved ones while simultaneously protecting my son from the terrible visuals that spread everywhere.

The scenes of that day transcended anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son captured by several attackers. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of the border using transportation.

Friends sent social media clips that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured into the territory. A woman I knew and her little boys – children I had played with – seized by militants, the terror apparent in her expression devastating.

The Painful Period

It seemed interminable for assistance to reach the area. Then commenced the agonizing wait for news. In the evening, a lone picture appeared of survivors. My mother and father weren't there.

For days and weeks, as friends assisted investigators document losses, we searched digital spaces for traces of those missing. We encountered torture and mutilation. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no indication regarding his experience.

The Emerging Picture

Eventually, the reality emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – as well as dozens more – were abducted from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. In the chaos, a quarter of our neighbors were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my mum emerged from captivity. Prior to leaving, she looked back and shook hands of her captor. "Peace," she said. That image – a simple human connection within indescribable tragedy – was shared everywhere.

Over 500 days following, Dad's body were returned. He was murdered a short distance from our home.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and their documentation continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the destruction across the border – has worsened the primary pain.

My family had always been peace activists. Mom continues, as are many relatives. We recognize that hostility and vengeance cannot bring even momentary relief from this tragedy.

I share these thoughts through tears. With each day, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The young ones of my friends remain hostages along with the pressure of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I call dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We typically sharing our story to campaign for freedom, despite sorrow remains a luxury we don't have – after 24 months, our campaign continues.

No part of this narrative is intended as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed the fighting from the beginning. The residents in the territory endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I'm shocked by government decisions, but I also insist that the organization shouldn't be viewed as innocent activists. Since I witnessed their actions on October 7th. They abandoned their own people – creating suffering for everyone through their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story among individuals justifying what happened seems like failing the deceased. My local circle experiences growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled with the authorities consistently while experiencing betrayal again and again.

From the border, the devastation of the territory can be seen and visceral. It shocks me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that numerous people appear to offer to militant groups causes hopelessness.