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It unfolded on a morning that seemed perfectly normal. I was traveling with my husband and son to collect our new dog. The world appeared secure – until reality shattered.

Opening my phone, I discovered news about the border region. I dialed my parent, anticipating her reassuring tone saying she was safe. No answer. My parent couldn't be reached. Afterward, I reached my brother – his voice instantly communicated the devastating news prior to he spoke.

The Developing Nightmare

I've seen numerous faces in media reports whose worlds had collapsed. Their expressions revealing they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The torrent of violence were building, amid the destruction was still swirling.

My son looked at me across the seat. I moved to contact people separately. By the time we reached the city, I saw the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the militants who seized her residence.

I recall believing: "None of our family will survive."

At some point, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes erupting from our family home. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I refused to accept the building was gone – not until my siblings sent me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Getting to the city, I contacted the dog breeder. "Hostilities has erupted," I said. "My family are likely gone. Our kibbutz fell to by militants."

The return trip involved attempting to reach loved ones and at the same time guarding my young one from the horrific images that were emerging through networks.

The scenes during those hours were beyond any possible expectation. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher driven toward the border on a golf cart.

Friends sent digital recordings that seemed impossible. A senior community member similarly captured into the territory. My friend's daughter and her little boys – kids I recently saw – seized by militants, the terror visible on her face stunning.

The Painful Period

It felt to take forever for assistance to reach the area. Then began the painful anticipation for news. As time passed, one photograph emerged depicting escapees. My family were missing.

Over many days, as friends assisted investigators document losses, we combed online platforms for signs of our loved ones. We saw torture and mutilation. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no indication about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the reality emerged more fully. My elderly parents – together with numerous community members – were abducted from the community. My father was 83, Mom was 85. In the chaos, a quarter of our community members were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my parent left imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she looked back and offered a handshake of the militant. "Peace," she uttered. That image – a simple human connection during indescribable tragedy – was broadcast globally.

Over 500 days following, Dad's body were recovered. He was murdered a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and the visual proof still terrorize me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts to save hostages, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has worsened the initial trauma.

My mother and father had always been peace activists. Mom continues, as are other loved ones. We understand that hostility and vengeance cannot bring even momentary relief from the pain.

I compose these words while crying. As time passes, discussing these events grows harder, instead of improving. The children from my community remain hostages along with the pressure of what followed feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I term remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We're used to sharing our story to fight for hostage release, while mourning remains a luxury we don't have – and two years later, our campaign persists.

No part of this account serves as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed the fighting since it started. The residents in the territory experienced pain terribly.

I am horrified by government decisions, but I also insist that the militants cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Because I know their actions that day. They abandoned the population – causing suffering for everyone because of their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth with those who defend what happened feels like dishonoring the lost. My community here experiences unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned against its government throughout this period facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

Across the fields, the ruin across the frontier can be seen and painful. It shocks me. At the same time, the complete justification that many appear to offer to the attackers makes me despair.