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It unfolded that morning looking entirely routine. I rode with my husband and son to pick up our new dog. The world appeared predictable – then reality shattered.

Checking my device, I noticed reports concerning the frontier. I tried reaching my mother, expecting her reassuring tone telling me they were secure. No answer. My parent didn't respond either. Afterward, my brother answered – his speech instantly communicated the devastating news before he explained.

The Emerging Horror

I've observed so many people through news coverage whose existence were torn apart. Their eyes demonstrating they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Now it was me. The deluge of tragedy were rising, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My child looked at me from his screen. I moved to reach out in private. Once we got to the city, I encountered the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the terrorists who captured her residence.

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

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

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at our destination, I contacted the kennel owner. "Conflict has begun," I said. "My mother and father are probably dead. Our neighborhood was captured by militants."

The ride back consisted of attempting to reach friends and family and at the same time protecting my son from the horrific images that spread everywhere.

The footage of that day transcended anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by armed militants. Someone who taught me taken in the direction of Gaza using transportation.

People shared Telegram videos that seemed impossible. A senior community member likewise abducted to Gaza. A young mother and her little boys – kids I recently saw – seized by militants, the horror apparent in her expression stunning.

The Painful Period

It appeared interminable for help to arrive the kibbutz. Then started the terrible uncertainty for information. In the evening, a single image emerged depicting escapees. My family weren't there.

During the following period, while neighbors assisted investigators locate the missing, we combed digital spaces for traces of family members. We saw brutality and violence. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no clue about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Over time, the situation became clearer. My senior mother and father – together with numerous community members – became captives from the community. My parent was in his eighties, my other parent was elderly. In the chaos, 25 percent of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother was released from captivity. Before departing, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of her captor. "Shalom," she said. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity during indescribable tragedy – was transmitted globally.

More than sixteen months afterward, my parent's physical presence were returned. He died a short distance from our home.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the visual proof continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the primary pain.

My family remained peace activists. My parent remains, as are other loved ones. We know that hostility and vengeance cannot bring any comfort from the pain.

I write this amid sorrow. As time passes, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The kids of my friends continue imprisoned with the burden of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I term dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We're used to discussing events to advocate for freedom, despite sorrow remains a luxury we don't have – now, our campaign endures.

Not one word of this narrative is intended as justification for war. I continuously rejected the fighting since it started. The residents of Gaza have suffered unimaginably.

I am horrified by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the militants shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Because I know their actions during those hours. They betrayed the community – creating pain for all because of their violent beliefs.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story among individuals justifying what happened feels like failing the deceased. The people around me faces unprecedented antisemitism, and our people back home has struggled against its government throughout this period and been betrayed repeatedly.

Across the fields, the devastation of the territory can be seen and visceral. It horrifies me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that many seem willing to provide to the attackers creates discouragement.