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It started on a morning that seemed entirely routine. I journeyed with my husband and son to welcome a new puppy. The world appeared secure – before everything changed.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered reports about the border region. I called my mother, anticipating her cheerful voice saying they were secure. Silence. My father was also silent. Next, my sibling picked up – his speech already told me the terrible truth prior to he said anything.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've observed numerous faces through news coverage whose lives were torn apart. Their eyes revealing they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Now it was me. The torrent of violence were rising, and the debris remained chaotic.

My young one glanced toward me from his screen. I relocated to reach out separately. By the time we arrived the station, I saw the terrible killing of a woman from my past – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the attackers who captured her residence.

I thought to myself: "Not a single of our family would make it."

Eventually, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes consuming our house. Even then, for days afterward, I denied the building was gone – until my brothers sent me photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

When we reached the city, I called the dog breeder. "A war has started," I said. "My mother and father are probably dead. My community fell to by terrorists."

The return trip consisted of searching for friends and family while also shielding my child from the terrible visuals that spread through networks.

The scenes from that day transcended all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by several attackers. Someone who taught me driven toward the border in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend also taken across the border. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – captured by attackers, the fear visible on her face paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It seemed endless for the military to come the area. Then started the painful anticipation for updates. Later that afternoon, one photograph appeared showing those who made it. My family were missing.

For days and weeks, while neighbors assisted investigators locate the missing, we combed the internet for signs of those missing. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no indication about his final moments.

The Developing Reality

Gradually, the circumstances emerged more fully. My aged family – as well as dozens more – were taken hostage from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, a quarter of our community members were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my parent left imprisonment. Before departing, she looked back and grasped the hand of the militant. "Shalom," she said. That moment – an elemental act of humanity during unimaginable horror – was shared worldwide.

Over 500 days afterward, my parent's physical presence were recovered. He died just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These events and the recorded evidence remain with me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign for the captives, my parent's awful death, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the primary pain.

My family had always been campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, as are other loved ones. We recognize that animosity and retaliation don't offer even momentary relief from the pain.

I share these thoughts while crying. As time passes, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, rather than simpler. The young ones from my community remain hostages with the burden of what followed remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I call dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We're used to discussing events to advocate for freedom, despite sorrow remains a luxury we don't have – after 24 months, our efforts continues.

Not one word of this narrative serves as support for conflict. I continuously rejected this conflict since it started. The residents across the border have suffered unimaginably.

I am horrified by political choices, but I also insist that the militants cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Having seen their actions during those hours. They betrayed the population – creating tragedy on both sides due to their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth with people supporting the violence seems like dishonoring the lost. My local circle experiences unprecedented antisemitism, and our people back home has campaigned versus leadership throughout this period while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

From the border, the ruin of the territory can be seen and painful. It appalls me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that numerous people seem willing to provide to the organizations makes me despair.