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It unfolded on a morning appearing perfectly normal. I was traveling with my husband and son to welcome a new puppy. Life felt secure – until it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered news concerning the frontier. I called my parent, hoping for her calm response telling me she was safe. Nothing. My parent didn't respond either. Then, my sibling picked up – his voice already told me the awful reality before he spoke.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've witnessed countless individuals on television whose existence were destroyed. Their eyes revealing they didn't understand their tragedy. Now it was me. The deluge of horror were rising, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My son watched me over his laptop. I moved to make calls in private. Once we arrived the city, I saw the horrific murder of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the militants who seized her home.

I recall believing: "Not a single of our friends would make it."

Later, I saw footage showing fire erupting from our house. Even then, later on, I denied the building was gone – before my siblings shared with me photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

Getting to our destination, I contacted the dog breeder. "Hostilities has begun," I explained. "My family may not survive. Our kibbutz was captured by terrorists."

The ride back consisted of attempting to reach friends and family while simultaneously protecting my son from the terrible visuals that circulated through networks.

The scenes from that day were beyond anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son seized by several attackers. My former educator transported to the territory on a golf cart.

People shared digital recordings that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend also taken across the border. A woman I knew and her little boys – kids I recently saw – captured by attackers, the horror apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It seemed interminable for help to arrive the kibbutz. Then began the painful anticipation for news. As time passed, one photograph emerged depicting escapees. My family were not among them.

During the following period, as friends worked with authorities document losses, we scoured online platforms for traces of our loved ones. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. We never found footage of my father – no clue about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Over time, the reality emerged more fully. My aged family – together with 74 others – were abducted from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. During the violence, 25 percent of our community members were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent emerged from confinement. As she left, she turned and shook hands of the militant. "Hello," she said. That image – an elemental act of humanity within unspeakable violence – was broadcast everywhere.

Five hundred and two days later, Dad's body came back. He was murdered only kilometers from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and the visual proof still terrorize me. The two years since – our urgent efforts for the captives, Dad's terrible fate, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has compounded the primary pain.

Both my parents remained campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, like other loved ones. We understand that hostility and vengeance don't offer the slightest solace from this tragedy.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. Over the months, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The children belonging to companions continue imprisoned with the burden of what followed feels heavy.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I term focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed telling our experience to campaign for freedom, despite sorrow seems unaffordable we don't have – now, our campaign persists.

No part of this story serves as justification for war. I've always been against hostilities from the beginning. The population of Gaza endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I'm shocked by political choices, while maintaining that the militants cannot be considered innocent activists. Since I witnessed what they did on October 7th. They failed the population – creating suffering for everyone because of their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story with people supporting the attackers' actions seems like failing the deceased. My local circle experiences rising hostility, and our people back home has struggled with the authorities consistently facing repeated disappointment multiple times.

Looking over, the destruction in Gaza appears clearly and visceral. It appalls me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that various individuals appear to offer to the organizations causes hopelessness.