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It unfolded during that morning that seemed perfectly normal. I journeyed with my husband and son to pick up a new puppy. Life felt steady – until reality shattered.

Glancing at my screen, I saw reports concerning the frontier. I dialed my mother, expecting her reassuring tone saying they were secure. No answer. My parent couldn't be reached. Afterward, I reached my brother – his speech already told me the devastating news before he spoke.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've observed numerous faces on television whose lives had collapsed. Their eyes revealing they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The torrent of tragedy were building, and the debris hadn't settled.

My son glanced toward me from his screen. I shifted to make calls in private. By the time we reached the station, I saw the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the militants who took over her house.

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

Eventually, I witnessed recordings depicting flames erupting from our house. Nonetheless, in the following days, I denied the home had burned – until my family sent me photographs and evidence.

The Fallout

When we reached the city, I phoned the dog breeder. "Hostilities has erupted," I told them. "My family are likely gone. Our kibbutz has been taken over by militants."

The ride back involved attempting to reach loved ones and at the same time guarding my young one from the horrific images that circulated across platforms.

The scenes during those hours transcended any possible expectation. A child from our community seized by armed militants. My mathematics teacher transported to the territory on a golf cart.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion likewise abducted across the border. A woman I knew with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – captured by militants, the terror visible on her face devastating.

The Long Wait

It felt interminable for assistance to reach the area. Then started the agonizing wait for news. As time passed, a lone picture appeared of survivors. My parents weren't there.

Over many days, as community members worked with authorities locate the missing, we searched digital spaces for signs of our loved ones. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. There was no recordings showing my parent – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the situation emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – along with 74 others – were taken hostage from their home. My parent was in his eighties, my other parent was elderly. During the violence, one in four of our community members were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother was released from imprisonment. As she left, she turned and offered a handshake of the guard. "Shalom," she spoke. That image – an elemental act of humanity amid indescribable tragedy – was shared globally.

Over 500 days later, my father's remains were recovered. He was murdered just two miles from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and their documentation continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign for the captives, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has worsened the initial trauma.

My mother and father were lifelong advocates for peace. Mom continues, similar to other loved ones. We know that animosity and retaliation don't offer any comfort from this tragedy.

I compose these words while crying. With each day, talking about what happened grows harder, not easier. The young ones belonging to companions continue imprisoned with the burden of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I call dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We typically telling our experience to advocate for hostage release, while mourning remains a luxury we cannot afford – now, our efforts persists.

Nothing of this narrative represents justification for war. I continuously rejected hostilities since it started. The population of Gaza have suffered terribly.

I'm shocked by political choices, while maintaining that the militants are not innocent activists. Because I know what they did during those hours. They abandoned the community – ensuring tragedy on both sides through their deadly philosophy.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience with those who defend the violence appears as dishonoring the lost. The people around me faces unprecedented antisemitism, and our people back home has campaigned against its government throughout this period facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

Looking over, the destruction across the frontier can be seen and painful. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that numerous people appear to offer to militant groups creates discouragement.