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It unfolded during that morning appearing perfectly normal. I was traveling with my husband and son to collect our new dog. Everything seemed secure – before it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed reports concerning the frontier. I dialed my parent, anticipating her calm response telling me everything was fine. Silence. My father couldn't be reached. Next, my brother answered – his tone instantly communicated the devastating news before he said anything.

The Developing Nightmare

I've witnessed so many people through news coverage whose lives were destroyed. Their eyes showing they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of violence were rising, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My child looked at me from his screen. I relocated to reach out separately. When we reached our destination, I saw the brutal execution of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the terrorists who took over her home.

I recall believing: "Not one of our loved ones could live through this."

At some point, I viewed videos depicting flames consuming our residence. Despite this, in the following days, I denied the home had burned – before my family sent me images and proof.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at our destination, I called the kennel owner. "Conflict has begun," I told them. "My parents are likely gone. Our neighborhood was captured by terrorists."

The ride back involved searching for friends and family and at the same time protecting my son from the awful footage that were emerging across platforms.

The images during those hours exceeded all comprehension. A child from our community captured by several attackers. My former educator taken in the direction of the border on a golf cart.

Friends sent digital recordings appearing unbelievable. A senior community member also taken to Gaza. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – captured by attackers, the terror apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It appeared endless for the military to come our community. Then started the agonizing wait for information. In the evening, a lone picture emerged of survivors. My mother and father weren't there.

Over many days, while neighbors helped forensic teams locate the missing, we scoured digital spaces for signs of family members. We witnessed torture and mutilation. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no clue regarding his experience.

The Emerging Picture

Eventually, the reality became clearer. My senior mother and father – together with dozens more – were abducted from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. During the violence, a quarter of the residents were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my parent was released from imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she looked back and shook hands of the guard. "Shalom," she uttered. That image – an elemental act of humanity within indescribable tragedy – was transmitted worldwide.

Over 500 days afterward, my parent's physical presence came back. He was killed only kilometers from our home.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the original wound.

My family were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, similar to other loved ones. We recognize that animosity and retaliation won't provide any comfort from the pain.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. Over the months, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, not easier. The young ones belonging to companions remain hostages and the weight of subsequent events is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I describe remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed telling our experience to advocate for the captives, while mourning seems unaffordable we cannot afford – now, our efforts endures.

No part of this account is intended as support for conflict. I've always been against this conflict from the beginning. The population in the territory endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I'm shocked by political choices, yet emphasizing that the organization cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Having seen their actions that day. They abandoned the community – ensuring tragedy on both sides because of their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story among individuals justifying what happened feels like betraying my dead. The people around me confronts unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled against its government throughout this period while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

Looking over, the devastation in Gaza is visible and painful. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that numerous people seem to grant to the attackers causes hopelessness.