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It started that morning appearing entirely routine. I journeyed with my husband and son to pick up a new puppy. Everything seemed steady – then it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I noticed reports about the border region. I tried reaching my parent, hoping for her calm response saying she was safe. No answer. My parent couldn't be reached. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his tone instantly communicated the terrible truth before he said anything.

The Developing Horror

I've observed numerous faces in media reports whose worlds were torn apart. Their expressions demonstrating they couldn't comprehend their loss. Suddenly it was us. The torrent of horror were overwhelming, and the debris remained chaotic.

My young one glanced toward me over his laptop. I shifted to reach out separately. When we reached our destination, I would witness the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the terrorists who took over her house.

I thought to myself: "Not one of our friends could live through this."

Later, I viewed videos showing fire bursting through our house. Even then, in the following days, I denied the house was destroyed – until my family provided photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

Getting to our destination, I called the kennel owner. "Hostilities has erupted," I explained. "My mother and father are likely gone. Our neighborhood was captured by militants."

The journey home consisted of searching for friends and family while simultaneously protecting my son from the terrible visuals that spread everywhere.

The images during those hours exceeded any possible expectation. A child from our community taken by armed militants. My former educator driven toward the border in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted across the border. A young mother with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – seized by attackers, the terror in her eyes paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It appeared to take forever for assistance to reach the area. Then commenced the agonizing wait for updates. In the evening, one photograph emerged depicting escapees. My family were missing.

Over many days, as community members assisted investigators locate the missing, we combed digital spaces for evidence of family members. We encountered torture and mutilation. We never found recordings showing my parent – no clue regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the reality became clearer. My elderly parents – together with dozens more – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, 25 percent of our community members were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my mum was released from confinement. As she left, she turned and shook hands of the militant. "Shalom," she uttered. That image – a simple human connection during indescribable tragedy – was shared everywhere.

Over 500 days later, Dad's body were returned. He died only kilometers from the kibbutz.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and their documentation remain with me. The two years since – our urgent efforts for the captives, Dad's terrible fate, the ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has intensified the initial trauma.

My family remained campaigners for reconciliation. My parent remains, as are other loved ones. We recognize that hate and revenge don't offer any comfort from the pain.

I write this amid sorrow. Over the months, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The young ones from my community are still captive and the weight of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I describe remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed telling our experience to fight for hostage release, while mourning seems unaffordable we lack – and two years later, our work continues.

Not one word of this narrative serves as endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected this conflict since it started. The people in the territory endured tragedy terribly.

I'm appalled by government decisions, but I also insist that the militants shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Having seen what they did on October 7th. They failed their own people – causing tragedy on both sides through their deadly philosophy.

The Community Split

Sharing my story with those who defend the violence feels like dishonoring the lost. The people around me confronts unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought against its government throughout this period facing repeated disappointment again and again.

Looking over, the devastation in Gaza appears clearly and painful. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that numerous people appear to offer to the attackers causes hopelessness.