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It started during that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I journeyed with my husband and son to pick up a furry companion. The world appeared steady – until everything changed.

Checking my device, I saw reports from the border. I tried reaching my mother, hoping for her reassuring tone telling me she was safe. No answer. My dad was also silent. Next, my sibling picked up – his tone instantly communicated the devastating news prior to he spoke.

The Developing Tragedy

I've observed numerous faces through news coverage whose worlds were torn apart. Their gaze demonstrating they didn't understand what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of horror were overwhelming, amid the destruction was still swirling.

My child watched me from his screen. I relocated to contact people separately. Once we arrived the station, I saw the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – a senior citizen – shown in real-time by the terrorists who captured her residence.

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

At some point, I viewed videos depicting flames consuming our house. Despite this, in the following days, I denied the building was gone – before my brothers sent me visual confirmation.

The Consequences

Getting to the station, I called the puppy provider. "Conflict has started," I explained. "My family are likely gone. Our neighborhood was captured by militants."

The journey home was spent attempting to reach community members while simultaneously shielding my child from the terrible visuals that circulated across platforms.

The footage from that day were beyond any possible expectation. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by armed militants. My mathematics teacher driven toward the border on a golf cart.

People shared digital recordings that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured across the border. A young mother and her little boys – children I had played with – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the terror visible on her face devastating.

The Painful Period

It felt endless for the military to come our community. Then started the painful anticipation for updates. As time passed, a single image appeared of survivors. My family were missing.

Over many days, while neighbors worked with authorities document losses, we combed digital spaces for traces of family members. We saw atrocities and horrors. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no clue regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the situation grew more distinct. My elderly parents – as well as 74 others – were abducted from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. In the chaos, one in four of the residents lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my parent was released from confinement. Before departing, she looked back and shook hands of her captor. "Peace," she said. That moment – an elemental act of humanity during indescribable tragedy – was shared globally.

Five hundred and two days following, Dad's body were returned. He died just two miles from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and the visual proof remain with me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the initial trauma.

My mother and father had always been campaigners for reconciliation. My parent remains, similar to most of my family. We know that hate and revenge don't offer any comfort from our suffering.

I compose these words while crying. As time passes, sharing the experience grows harder, not easier. The young ones from my community are still captive with the burden of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I call dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We're used to sharing our story to campaign for the captives, though grieving seems unaffordable we don't have – now, our efforts continues.

Nothing of this account is intended as endorsement of violence. I've always been against hostilities from the beginning. The population across the border endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by government decisions, while maintaining that the organization cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Having seen their actions on October 7th. They abandoned their own people – ensuring tragedy on both sides due to their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story among individuals justifying the violence seems like failing the deceased. My local circle faces unprecedented antisemitism, while my community there has fought versus leadership consistently facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

Looking over, the devastation in Gaza is visible and visceral. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that many seem to grant to the attackers makes me despair.