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It began during that morning appearing completely ordinary. I rode with my husband and son to welcome a furry companion. Everything seemed predictable – then it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I noticed news from the border. I called my mum, anticipating her cheerful voice explaining everything was fine. No answer. My dad was also silent. Afterward, I reached my brother – his tone immediately revealed the awful reality even as he spoke.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've seen so many people on television whose lives had collapsed. Their eyes showing they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of violence were building, with the wreckage was still swirling.

My young one glanced toward me across the seat. I relocated to reach out alone. When we arrived the city, I would witness the horrific murder of a woman from my past – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the militants who seized her house.

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

Eventually, I viewed videos depicting flames consuming our family home. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – before my family sent me visual confirmation.

The Consequences

When we reached the city, I contacted the dog breeder. "Conflict has begun," I told them. "My family are likely gone. Our kibbutz fell to by terrorists."

The return trip consisted of trying to contact community members while also shielding my child from the horrific images that circulated everywhere.

The scenes from that day transcended any possible expectation. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by several attackers. My former educator driven toward the territory using transportation.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured to Gaza. A young mother and her little boys – boys I knew well – captured by armed terrorists, the fear visible on her face stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt endless for the military to come the area. Then began the agonizing wait for news. As time passed, a single image emerged showing those who made it. My family were missing.

For days and weeks, as community members assisted investigators locate the missing, we scoured digital spaces for traces of family members. We encountered atrocities and horrors. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no evidence about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Eventually, the circumstances became clearer. My senior mother and father – as well as 74 others – became captives from their home. My father was 83, my other parent was elderly. In the chaos, 25 percent of our community members were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother emerged from confinement. Before departing, she looked back and grasped the hand of the guard. "Shalom," she said. That gesture – a simple human connection within unimaginable horror – was broadcast everywhere.

More than sixteen months afterward, my father's remains came back. He was murdered only kilometers from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and the recorded evidence remain with me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign for the captives, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has intensified the initial trauma.

My family remained advocates for peace. My parent remains, as are many relatives. We recognize that animosity and retaliation cannot bring the slightest solace from this tragedy.

I share these thoughts through tears. As time passes, talking about what happened grows harder, not easier. The children from my community continue imprisoned along with the pressure of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I term dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We typically sharing our story to advocate for the captives, while mourning feels like privilege we don't have – now, our work persists.

No part of this account serves as justification for war. I've always been against hostilities since it started. The population across the border experienced pain beyond imagination.

I am horrified by political choices, while maintaining that the attackers shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Because I know their actions during those hours. They abandoned their own people – creating pain for all due to their violent beliefs.

The Social Divide

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying the violence seems like failing the deceased. My local circle faces growing prejudice, and our people back home has struggled with the authorities consistently while experiencing betrayal again and again.

From the border, the devastation across the frontier appears clearly and visceral. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that numerous people seem to grant to the attackers causes hopelessness.