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It began that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I journeyed with my husband and son to collect a furry companion. Life felt predictable – then it all shifted.

Checking my device, I saw news from the border. I dialed my mum, anticipating her cheerful voice explaining they were secure. Nothing. My dad couldn't be reached. Next, my sibling picked up – his tone instantly communicated the devastating news prior to he said anything.

The Emerging Horror

I've seen numerous faces through news coverage whose lives were torn apart. Their eyes revealing they didn't understand their loss. Then it became our turn. The deluge of tragedy were rising, and the debris remained chaotic.

My child looked at me across the seat. I moved to reach out in private. Once we got to the city, I encountered the terrible killing of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the terrorists who seized her home.

I remember thinking: "Not one of our friends will survive."

At some point, I saw footage depicting flames erupting from our residence. Despite this, later on, I refused to accept the house was destroyed – not until my siblings shared with me photographs and evidence.

The Consequences

Upon arriving at our destination, I called the puppy provider. "Hostilities has begun," I said. "My family are probably dead. My community was captured by attackers."

The journey home was spent attempting to reach loved ones and at the same time shielding my child from the terrible visuals that were emerging through networks.

The footage from that day were beyond any possible expectation. A child from our community seized by several attackers. My former educator transported to Gaza on a golf cart.

People shared digital recordings that seemed impossible. A senior community member also taken to Gaza. A woman I knew accompanied by her children – children I had played with – seized by armed terrorists, the fear apparent in her expression devastating.

The Long Wait

It appeared to take forever for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then started the terrible uncertainty for news. Later that afternoon, a single image circulated depicting escapees. My mother and father were missing.

For days and weeks, as community members worked with authorities identify victims, we combed digital spaces for traces of family members. We saw brutality and violence. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no clue about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the reality grew more distinct. My senior mother and father – along with numerous community members – became captives from their home. My father was 83, my mother 85. In the chaos, one in four of our community members were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my parent was released from confinement. Before departing, she looked back and shook hands of her captor. "Peace," she said. That moment – a basic human interaction during indescribable tragedy – was transmitted everywhere.

Five hundred and two days afterward, Dad's body were returned. He was killed a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These events and the visual proof still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism for the captives, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the original wound.

My family had always been peace activists. My parent remains, similar to most of my family. We understand that animosity and retaliation don't offer the slightest solace from our suffering.

I write this through tears. As time passes, discussing these events grows harder, rather than simpler. The children from my community remain hostages along with the pressure of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I term dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed telling our experience to campaign for hostage release, while mourning seems unaffordable we don't have – and two years later, our efforts persists.

Not one word of this account serves as justification for war. I have consistently opposed hostilities from day one. The population of Gaza have suffered unimaginably.

I'm appalled by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the organization are not innocent activists. Having seen their actions that day. They abandoned their own people – creating pain for all through their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying what happened feels like failing the deceased. My community here faces unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled with the authorities for two years facing repeated disappointment again and again.

Across the fields, the devastation of the territory appears clearly and emotional. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the moral carte blanche that numerous people appear to offer to militant groups makes me despair.