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It started during that morning appearing entirely routine. I journeyed with my husband and son to collect a new puppy. The world appeared predictable – until it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I discovered news concerning the frontier. I dialed my mother, hoping for her calm response saying everything was fine. No answer. My dad was also silent. Afterward, I reached my brother – his speech instantly communicated the awful reality prior to he said anything.

The Developing Horror

I've witnessed so many people through news coverage whose existence were torn apart. Their expressions showing they didn't understand what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of violence were rising, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My young one looked at me from his screen. I shifted to contact people separately. By the time we reached the station, I encountered the terrible killing of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the attackers who captured her home.

I thought to myself: "Not a single of our family could live through this."

Eventually, I viewed videos showing fire erupting from our residence. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the building was gone – before my siblings sent me photographs and evidence.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at the station, I called the puppy provider. "Conflict has started," I said. "My parents may not survive. Our neighborhood was captured by attackers."

The return trip involved searching for friends and family and at the same time shielding my child from the terrible visuals that were emerging everywhere.

The footage of that day transcended anything we could imagine. A child from our community captured by armed militants. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of Gaza in a vehicle.

Friends sent social media clips that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion also taken to Gaza. A young mother with her two small sons – boys I knew well – captured by armed terrorists, the terror apparent in her expression devastating.

The Painful Period

It appeared to take forever for assistance to reach our community. Then began the painful anticipation for updates. Later that afternoon, a single image emerged depicting escapees. My parents weren't there.

For days and weeks, as friends worked with authorities locate the missing, we combed online platforms for traces of those missing. We encountered atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no clue regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Over time, the reality grew more distinct. My aged family – along with dozens more – became captives from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. During the violence, a quarter of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother left captivity. As she left, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of her captor. "Hello," she uttered. That moment – a simple human connection within unspeakable violence – was transmitted globally.

Five hundred and two days afterward, Dad's body came back. He died only kilometers from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and their documentation remain with me. The two years since – our determined activism to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has compounded the initial trauma.

My mother and father were lifelong advocates for peace. My mother still is, similar to many relatives. We understand that animosity and retaliation won't provide any comfort from the pain.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. Over the months, talking about what happened grows harder, not easier. The children of my friends are still captive along with the pressure of what followed is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I call remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed sharing our story to advocate for hostage release, despite sorrow feels like privilege we cannot afford – now, our efforts persists.

Not one word of this narrative serves as endorsement of violence. I've always been against hostilities from the beginning. The people of Gaza have suffered terribly.

I am horrified by government decisions, but I also insist that the organization cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Having seen their atrocities that day. They betrayed the population – ensuring suffering for everyone through their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Telling my truth with those who defend the attackers' actions appears as dishonoring the lost. The people around me confronts rising hostility, and our people back home has struggled versus leadership consistently and been betrayed repeatedly.

Looking over, the devastation across the frontier can be seen and visceral. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the moral carte blanche that many appear to offer to the organizations makes me despair.