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It began that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I was traveling with my husband and son to welcome our new dog. Life felt predictable – before reality shattered.

Glancing at my screen, I saw reports from the border. I called my mum, anticipating her cheerful voice explaining she was safe. No answer. My dad didn't respond either. Next, my brother answered – his speech immediately revealed the terrible truth prior to he spoke.

The Emerging Horror

I've seen numerous faces on television whose lives had collapsed. Their eyes showing they hadn't yet processed their loss. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of horror were overwhelming, and the debris was still swirling.

My child glanced toward me from his screen. I shifted to contact people in private. When we reached the city, I would witness the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the militants who took over her home.

I thought to myself: "Not a single of our family would make it."

At some point, I witnessed recordings depicting flames erupting from our house. Even then, in the following days, I denied the house was destroyed – not until my siblings shared with me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Getting to the city, I phoned the dog breeder. "Hostilities has begun," I explained. "My family are likely gone. Our kibbutz fell to by terrorists."

The ride back consisted of attempting to reach loved ones while simultaneously guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that circulated through networks.

The footage of that day exceeded any possible expectation. A child from our community taken by armed militants. My former educator taken in the direction of Gaza using transportation.

Friends sent digital recordings appearing unbelievable. My mother's elderly companion also taken across the border. A woman I knew accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – seized by armed terrorists, the fear in her eyes paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It felt interminable for assistance to reach our community. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for information. As time passed, a lone picture appeared of survivors. My mother and father weren't there.

During the following period, as community members assisted investigators identify victims, we combed digital spaces for traces of family members. We encountered atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no clue regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the circumstances grew more distinct. My aged family – as well as numerous community members – were abducted from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. In the chaos, one in four of our community members were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my mum was released from captivity. Before departing, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of the guard. "Shalom," she spoke. That image – an elemental act of humanity amid indescribable tragedy – was broadcast everywhere.

Five hundred and two days following, my father's remains came back. He died just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and the visual proof remain with me. The two years since – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the primary pain.

My mother and father remained campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, like other loved ones. We understand that hate and revenge don't offer any comfort from this tragedy.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. As time passes, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The kids of my friends continue imprisoned with the burden of what followed is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I call dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We're used to discussing events to fight for hostage release, despite sorrow feels like privilege we cannot afford – and two years later, our efforts continues.

Not one word of this narrative serves as justification for war. I've always been against hostilities from day one. The residents in the territory experienced pain unimaginably.

I am horrified by political choices, while maintaining that the attackers cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed their actions that day. They abandoned the population – creating suffering for everyone through their violent beliefs.

The Community Split

Sharing my story among individuals justifying the violence appears as betraying my dead. My community here faces growing prejudice, while my community there has fought against its government for two years and been betrayed repeatedly.

Across the fields, the devastation across the frontier appears clearly and emotional. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that many seem to grant to militant groups causes hopelessness.