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It began that morning looking completely ordinary. I rode accompanied by my family to pick up a furry companion. Life felt secure – until everything changed.

Opening my phone, I saw reports about the border region. I called my mum, anticipating her reassuring tone saying they were secure. Silence. My parent didn't respond either. Then, my sibling picked up – his voice immediately revealed the devastating news even as he spoke.

The Developing Tragedy

I've seen countless individuals through news coverage whose existence were destroyed. Their expressions showing they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of tragedy were rising, with the wreckage was still swirling.

My son watched me from his screen. I shifted to make calls in private. When we got to our destination, I would witness the horrific murder of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the attackers who captured her residence.

I remember thinking: "None of our family would make it."

Later, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes bursting through our residence. Nonetheless, in the following days, I refused to accept the home had burned – before my siblings shared with me photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

When we reached the city, I called the kennel owner. "Hostilities has erupted," I told them. "My parents may not survive. My community was captured by militants."

The journey home was spent attempting to reach friends and family and at the same time shielding my child from the awful footage that were emerging through networks.

The footage from that day exceeded all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son seized by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me transported to Gaza in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured to Gaza. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – children I had played with – captured by militants, the horror in her eyes devastating.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt to take forever for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then began the terrible uncertainty for information. Later that afternoon, a single image emerged of survivors. My parents were not among them.

Over many days, as community members worked with authorities identify victims, we scoured digital spaces for evidence of those missing. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no clue regarding his experience.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the reality grew more distinct. My senior mother and father – together with 74 others – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, one in four of the residents were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my mum left imprisonment. As she left, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of her captor. "Hello," she said. That image – an elemental act of humanity within unspeakable violence – was broadcast globally.

More than sixteen months following, my parent's physical presence came back. He was murdered a short distance from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These experiences and their documentation remain with me. Everything that followed – our determined activism for the captives, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the initial trauma.

My mother and father were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. My parent remains, like other loved ones. We recognize that hostility and vengeance don't offer the slightest solace from the pain.

I share these thoughts while crying. Over the months, discussing these events grows harder, instead of improving. The young ones from my community continue imprisoned and the weight of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I call dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We typically telling our experience to fight for freedom, despite sorrow feels like privilege we cannot afford – now, our campaign endures.

No part of this story serves as justification for war. I continuously rejected the fighting since it started. The people in the territory have suffered terribly.

I'm appalled by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the militants cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed their atrocities on October 7th. They betrayed the population – ensuring suffering for everyone through their violent beliefs.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth with those who defend the violence seems like failing the deceased. My local circle faces growing prejudice, and our people back home has fought against its government for two years while experiencing betrayal again and again.

From the border, the devastation across the frontier appears clearly and emotional. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that various individuals seem to grant to militant groups makes me despair.