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It unfolded that morning looking completely ordinary. I rode with my husband and son to welcome our new dog. Everything seemed secure – until it all shifted.

Checking my device, I saw news from the border. I dialed my parent, hoping for her cheerful voice saying everything was fine. Nothing. My father was also silent. Then, my brother answered – his speech instantly communicated the awful reality before he explained.

The Unfolding Horror

I've witnessed numerous faces on television whose existence had collapsed. Their eyes showing they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Now it was me. The torrent of horror were overwhelming, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My son glanced toward me from his screen. I shifted to contact people in private. When we reached our destination, I encountered the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the terrorists who captured her residence.

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

Later, I saw footage showing fire erupting from our residence. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the building was gone – not until my family sent me photographs and evidence.

The Fallout

Getting to our destination, I contacted the dog breeder. "Hostilities has erupted," I explained. "My family are likely gone. My community has been taken over by terrorists."

The return trip was spent attempting to reach friends and family while also shielding my child from the awful footage that were emerging through networks.

The scenes of that day transcended all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son taken by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me taken in the direction of the territory using transportation.

Individuals circulated digital recordings that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted into the territory. A woman I knew and her little boys – children I had played with – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the terror in her eyes devastating.

The Long Wait

It seemed endless for the military to come the kibbutz. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for updates. In the evening, a lone picture appeared showing those who made it. My family were missing.

During the following period, while neighbors assisted investigators identify victims, we combed digital spaces for traces of family members. We saw atrocities and horrors. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no indication about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Eventually, the reality emerged more fully. My aged family – together with 74 others – became captives from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, my mother 85. During the violence, 25 percent of our community members were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum left confinement. Before departing, she turned and grasped the hand of the guard. "Peace," she uttered. That gesture – a basic human interaction during indescribable tragedy – was transmitted globally.

Five hundred and two days afterward, my parent's physical presence came back. He died only kilometers from our home.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and their documentation still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has intensified the original wound.

My mother and father were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, similar to other loved ones. We recognize that hostility and vengeance cannot bring any comfort from our suffering.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. With each day, talking about what happened grows harder, not easier. The young ones belonging to companions are still captive and the weight of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I call dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We typically telling our experience to advocate for the captives, while mourning seems unaffordable we lack – and two years later, our campaign continues.

No part of this narrative is intended as justification for war. I continuously rejected this conflict since it started. The people across the border experienced pain beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the organization are not benign resistance fighters. Having seen what they did on October 7th. They abandoned their own people – creating tragedy on both sides through their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth with those who defend the attackers' actions feels like betraying my dead. My community here faces growing prejudice, and our people back home has struggled versus leadership for two years facing repeated disappointment multiple times.

Looking over, the devastation across the frontier can be seen and visceral. It shocks me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that various individuals seem willing to provide to militant groups creates discouragement.