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It began during that morning appearing completely ordinary. I was traveling with my husband and son to pick up our new dog. Everything seemed steady – before everything changed.

Glancing at my screen, I saw news about the border region. I tried reaching my parent, hoping for her reassuring tone telling me she was safe. Nothing. My parent couldn't be reached. Then, my sibling picked up – his voice already told me the awful reality before he said anything.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've seen countless individuals in media reports whose lives had collapsed. Their expressions revealing they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The deluge of horror were building, with the wreckage remained chaotic.

My young one looked at me across the seat. I relocated to reach out alone. By the time we arrived our destination, I encountered the horrific murder of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the militants who captured her home.

I thought to myself: "None of our loved ones will survive."

At some point, I viewed videos revealing blazes bursting through our family home. Even then, later on, I denied the home had burned – not until my brothers shared with me visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

Getting to our destination, I contacted the dog breeder. "Conflict has begun," I told them. "My family are likely gone. My community was captured by attackers."

The journey home consisted of trying to contact friends and family while simultaneously protecting my son from the awful footage that circulated through networks.

The footage from that day exceeded anything we could imagine. A child from our community taken by several attackers. My former educator taken in the direction of Gaza in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos that defied reality. A senior community member similarly captured to Gaza. A woman I knew accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – captured by militants, the fear apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt to take forever for help to arrive our community. Then started the painful anticipation for news. As time passed, one photograph appeared depicting escapees. My family were not among them.

During the following period, as friends worked with authorities identify victims, we scoured the internet for evidence of our loved ones. We saw brutality and violence. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no clue regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Gradually, the situation grew more distinct. My elderly parents – along with 74 others – were abducted from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. During the violence, 25 percent of our community members were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my mother emerged from imprisonment. As she left, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of the guard. "Peace," she uttered. That moment – a basic human interaction during unimaginable horror – was shared everywhere.

Five hundred and two days afterward, my parent's physical presence were recovered. He was murdered only kilometers from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and the visual proof remain with me. The two years since – our urgent efforts for the captives, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has intensified the primary pain.

Both my parents remained advocates for peace. Mom continues, similar to most of my family. We understand that hate and revenge cannot bring even momentary relief from our suffering.

I compose these words through tears. With each day, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, not easier. The kids from my community are still captive and the weight of subsequent events is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I call focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We typically telling our experience to fight for hostage release, despite sorrow remains a luxury we don't have – after 24 months, our campaign continues.

No part of this story represents justification for war. I've always been against the fighting from the beginning. The people in the territory have suffered beyond imagination.

I'm shocked by leadership actions, but I also insist that the attackers cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Because I know their atrocities during those hours. They abandoned the population – ensuring pain for all because of their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience with people supporting the attackers' actions seems like failing the deceased. My community here faces rising hostility, while my community there has struggled with the authorities for two years and been betrayed again and again.

Looking over, the devastation across the frontier can be seen and emotional. It appalls me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that many appear to offer to the organizations creates discouragement.