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It unfolded that morning that seemed perfectly normal. I journeyed with my husband and son to welcome our new dog. The world appeared secure – then it all shifted.

Checking my device, I saw updates from the border. I dialed my parent, anticipating her reassuring tone telling me they were secure. No answer. My father was also silent. Afterward, I reached my brother – his voice immediately revealed the devastating news even as he spoke.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've seen numerous faces on television whose worlds were destroyed. Their gaze revealing they couldn't comprehend their loss. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of violence were overwhelming, and the debris hadn't settled.

My young one watched me across the seat. I moved to reach out in private. When we reached the city, I saw the terrible killing of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the terrorists who took over her residence.

I recall believing: "None of our family could live through this."

At some point, I viewed videos revealing blazes erupting from our residence. Despite this, in the following days, I denied the home had burned – until my siblings sent me images and proof.

The Consequences

Upon arriving at our destination, I called the kennel owner. "Hostilities has begun," I explained. "My parents may not survive. My community fell to by terrorists."

The journey home was spent attempting to reach friends and family while simultaneously shielding my child from the terrible visuals that were emerging through networks.

The footage of that day transcended all comprehension. A child from our community taken by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me driven toward the territory in a vehicle.

Friends sent social media clips that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured across the border. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – children I had played with – seized by militants, the fear apparent in her expression stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It seemed to take forever for the military to come the kibbutz. Then commenced the agonizing wait for news. In the evening, a lone picture emerged of survivors. My parents were missing.

For days and weeks, while neighbors worked with authorities locate the missing, we scoured digital spaces for signs of family members. We witnessed brutality and violence. There was no recordings showing my parent – no clue regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the situation became clearer. My senior mother and father – as well as dozens more – were abducted from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my mother 85. During the violence, 25 percent of the residents lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother left confinement. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of her captor. "Peace," she uttered. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity within unspeakable violence – was shared globally.

Five hundred and two days afterward, my father's remains were returned. He was murdered a short distance from our home.

The Continuing Trauma

These experiences and the visual proof continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign for the captives, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has intensified the initial trauma.

My mother and father had always been campaigners for reconciliation. My parent remains, as are most of my family. We understand that hate and revenge cannot bring even momentary relief from this tragedy.

I write this through tears. As time passes, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The children from my community are still captive with the burden of the aftermath feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I call remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We're used to sharing our story to fight for hostage release, despite sorrow remains a luxury we cannot afford – after 24 months, our efforts endures.

Not one word of this narrative serves as justification for war. I have consistently opposed hostilities from day one. The people across the border have suffered beyond imagination.

I am horrified by political choices, but I also insist that the militants are not innocent activists. Because I know their atrocities during those hours. They failed their own people – creating tragedy on both sides due to their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience with people supporting the violence seems like failing the deceased. The people around me faces growing prejudice, and our people back home has struggled with the authorities for two years facing repeated disappointment multiple times.

Across the fields, the destruction in Gaza appears clearly and visceral. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that various individuals seem willing to provide to militant groups makes me despair.