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It started that morning looking perfectly normal. I journeyed with my husband and son to welcome our new dog. Everything seemed predictable – then everything changed.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered reports from the border. I tried reaching my mum, anticipating her cheerful voice explaining they were secure. Nothing. My father was also silent. Next, I reached my brother – his tone already told me the terrible truth prior to he spoke.

The Developing Nightmare

I've witnessed countless individuals in media reports whose lives were destroyed. Their gaze revealing they didn't understand their loss. Then it became our turn. The torrent of horror were rising, with the wreckage was still swirling.

My young one glanced toward me from his screen. I shifted to reach out separately. By the time we got to our destination, I encountered the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the militants who captured her home.

I remember thinking: "None of our family will survive."

At some point, I witnessed recordings showing fire bursting through our residence. Nonetheless, in the following days, I refused to accept the building was gone – not until my siblings sent me images and proof.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at our destination, I phoned the puppy provider. "A war has erupted," I told them. "My family are likely gone. Our neighborhood has been taken over by attackers."

The journey home involved searching for community members and at the same time guarding my young one from the awful footage that spread everywhere.

The scenes of that day were beyond all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son captured by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me driven toward Gaza on a golf cart.

People shared Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. My mother's elderly companion also taken across the border. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – seized by attackers, the horror visible on her face stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt endless for assistance to reach our community. Then started the painful anticipation for updates. In the evening, a lone picture emerged of survivors. My parents were not among them.

For days and weeks, while neighbors assisted investigators document losses, we combed digital spaces for evidence of those missing. We saw torture and mutilation. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the situation became clearer. My senior mother and father – along with 74 others – were abducted from our kibbutz. My father was 83, Mom was 85. In the chaos, one in four of our neighbors were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother emerged from confinement. Prior to leaving, she turned and offered a handshake of the guard. "Peace," she uttered. That moment – a basic human interaction amid unspeakable violence – was transmitted worldwide.

Five hundred and two days later, my father's remains came back. He was murdered only kilometers from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. The two years since – our determined activism to save hostages, my parent's awful death, the continuing conflict, the destruction across the border – has compounded the original wound.

My mother and father were lifelong peace activists. My parent remains, similar to other loved ones. We recognize that hate and revenge won't provide even momentary relief from the pain.

I write this amid sorrow. As time passes, sharing the experience grows harder, not easier. The kids of my friends are still captive with the burden of what followed is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I call focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We're used to telling our experience to campaign for the captives, though grieving seems unaffordable we lack – and two years later, our work persists.

Not one word of this account is intended as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed this conflict from the beginning. The residents of Gaza have suffered beyond imagination.

I am horrified by leadership actions, while maintaining that the organization cannot be considered innocent activists. Having seen their atrocities that day. They abandoned the population – causing tragedy on both sides due to their deadly philosophy.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience with those who defend what happened seems like dishonoring the lost. My community here experiences unprecedented antisemitism, while my community there has struggled with the authorities throughout this period while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

Looking over, the devastation of the territory is visible and emotional. It shocks me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that various individuals appear to offer to militant groups creates discouragement.