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It began during that morning that seemed entirely routine. I rode with my husband and son to pick up our new dog. The world appeared steady – until it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I saw reports from the border. I dialed my parent, expecting her reassuring tone saying everything was fine. Silence. My dad didn't respond either. Then, my brother answered – his speech already told me the awful reality before he spoke.

The Developing Horror

I've witnessed so many people through news coverage whose worlds had collapsed. Their expressions revealing they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of tragedy were building, and the debris remained chaotic.

My child glanced toward me across the seat. I shifted to contact people alone. When we got to our destination, I encountered the terrible killing of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the attackers who took over her house.

I remember thinking: "Not a single of our family could live through this."

Later, I witnessed recordings depicting flames erupting from our family home. Despite this, later on, I refused to accept the home had burned – before my family provided visual confirmation.

The Consequences

Upon arriving at our destination, I called the kennel owner. "Hostilities has started," I said. "My mother and father are likely gone. My community was captured by militants."

The journey home consisted of searching for community members while also guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that spread everywhere.

The scenes during those hours were beyond anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son seized by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of the border using transportation.

Individuals circulated digital recordings that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion also taken to Gaza. A young mother accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – captured by armed terrorists, the terror in her eyes paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It seemed interminable for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then commenced the agonizing wait for news. Later that afternoon, one photograph emerged depicting escapees. My parents were not among them.

Over many days, as friends worked with authorities identify victims, we combed online platforms for signs of those missing. We witnessed brutality and violence. There was no footage of my father – no indication regarding his experience.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the reality became clearer. My senior mother and father – as well as 74 others – were taken hostage from their home. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. During the violence, one in four of the residents were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my mother was released from captivity. Prior to leaving, she turned and offered a handshake of the guard. "Peace," she spoke. That moment – a basic human interaction amid indescribable tragedy – was broadcast globally.

Five hundred and two days following, my father's remains were recovered. He was killed just two miles from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and the visual proof still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the primary pain.

My family remained advocates for peace. My parent remains, as are many relatives. We understand that hate and revenge don't offer the slightest solace from this tragedy.

I write this through tears. With each day, discussing these events becomes more difficult, rather than simpler. The kids belonging to companions are still captive and the weight of what followed is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I call focusing on the trauma "immersed in suffering". We typically sharing our story to fight for hostage release, though grieving feels like privilege we lack – and two years later, our efforts persists.

Not one word of this account serves as endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected the fighting from day one. The people of Gaza endured tragedy unimaginably.

I'm appalled by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the militants cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed their actions during those hours. They failed their own people – causing tragedy on both sides through their violent beliefs.

The Social Divide

Discussing my experience with people supporting the violence seems like betraying my dead. My community here experiences rising hostility, while my community there has struggled versus leadership for two years facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

Looking over, the devastation of the territory appears clearly and emotional. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that numerous people seem to grant to the organizations causes hopelessness.