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It unfolded during that morning appearing entirely routine. I rode with my husband and son to welcome our new dog. The world appeared predictable – before it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I discovered reports about the border region. I called my parent, anticipating her reassuring tone saying everything was fine. Nothing. My parent couldn't be reached. Next, my brother answered – his tone immediately revealed the terrible truth before he said anything.

The Unfolding Tragedy

I've observed so many people on television whose lives were torn apart. Their expressions showing they hadn't yet processed their loss. Now it was me. The deluge of violence were building, and the debris remained chaotic.

My child glanced toward me across the seat. I shifted to contact people in private. When we got to our destination, I saw the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the terrorists who took over her home.

I remember thinking: "None of our family would make it."

Eventually, I saw footage revealing blazes consuming our residence. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the building was gone – before my brothers sent me visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at our destination, I called the puppy provider. "Hostilities has started," I explained. "My family are probably dead. Our neighborhood was captured by attackers."

The return trip consisted of attempting to reach loved ones and at the same time guarding my young one from the awful footage that spread through networks.

The images from that day exceeded all comprehension. A child from our community seized by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me transported to Gaza on a golf cart.

People shared digital recordings that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend also taken into the territory. A young mother accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – captured by armed terrorists, the fear apparent in her expression stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt endless for assistance to reach our community. Then commenced the painful anticipation for news. As time passed, a single image emerged of survivors. My mother and father were not among them.

Over many days, as friends helped forensic teams identify victims, we searched the internet for evidence of family members. We saw torture and mutilation. We never found footage of my father – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the reality grew more distinct. My elderly parents – together with dozens more – became captives from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, 25 percent of the residents were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my mum was released from captivity. As she left, she glanced behind and shook hands of the militant. "Shalom," she uttered. That gesture – a basic human interaction amid unimaginable horror – was transmitted everywhere.

Over 500 days afterward, my father's remains were recovered. He died a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and the recorded evidence remain with me. Everything that followed – our determined activism to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the original wound.

My family were lifelong peace activists. Mom continues, like most of my family. We recognize that animosity and retaliation cannot bring any comfort from this tragedy.

I write this through tears. As time passes, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, rather than simpler. The children from my community continue imprisoned along with the pressure of the aftermath feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I describe dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed discussing events to fight for the captives, while mourning seems unaffordable we don't have – after 24 months, our work continues.

No part of this narrative serves as justification for war. I have consistently opposed this conflict since it started. The residents of Gaza endured tragedy unimaginably.

I'm appalled by government decisions, but I also insist that the attackers shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed their actions during those hours. They abandoned their own people – ensuring suffering for everyone because of their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story with people supporting what happened seems like failing the deceased. My local circle confronts growing prejudice, while my community there has fought with the authorities consistently while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

Across the fields, the destruction in Gaza can be seen and emotional. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that various individuals appear to offer to militant groups makes me despair.