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It began that morning that seemed perfectly normal. I was traveling with my husband and son to pick up our new dog. Everything seemed steady – then reality shattered.

Checking my device, I discovered reports about the border region. I dialed my parent, hoping for her cheerful voice explaining they were secure. Nothing. My parent was also silent. Next, I reached my brother – his voice instantly communicated the awful reality even as he explained.

The Developing Horror

I've witnessed so many people through news coverage whose worlds were destroyed. Their gaze demonstrating they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The deluge of tragedy were overwhelming, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My son looked at me over his laptop. I moved to reach out alone. When we arrived our destination, I would witness the terrible killing of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the militants who captured her house.

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

At some point, I witnessed recordings depicting flames erupting from our family home. Nonetheless, later on, I refused to accept the home had burned – until my siblings sent me visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

When we reached the station, I contacted the puppy provider. "A war has started," I explained. "My family may not survive. Our kibbutz fell to by terrorists."

The ride back involved attempting to reach community members and at the same time shielding my child from the terrible visuals that spread across platforms.

The scenes of that day were beyond anything we could imagine. A child from our community taken by armed militants. My mathematics teacher driven toward the territory on a golf cart.

Friends sent digital recordings appearing unbelievable. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured to Gaza. A young mother and her little boys – boys I knew well – seized by militants, the horror apparent in her expression devastating.

The Agonizing Delay

It seemed interminable for the military to come our community. Then started the painful anticipation for news. In the evening, one photograph circulated showing those who made it. My family were missing.

Over many days, as community members assisted investigators identify victims, we searched digital spaces for signs of family members. We saw brutality and violence. There was no recordings showing my parent – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Over time, the reality grew more distinct. My aged family – together with dozens more – were abducted from their home. My parent was in his eighties, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, a quarter of our community members were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mother was released from captivity. As she left, she looked back and offered a handshake of the guard. "Shalom," she spoke. That image – a basic human interaction during unimaginable horror – was shared worldwide.

More than sixteen months following, my parent's physical presence were recovered. He died just two miles from our home.

The Continuing Trauma

These experiences and their documentation continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the original wound.

Both my parents remained peace activists. My mother still is, as are most of my family. We recognize that hate and revenge won't provide even momentary relief from our suffering.

I share these thoughts through tears. With each day, discussing these events grows harder, rather than simpler. The children belonging to companions continue imprisoned and the weight of what followed remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I term focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed telling our experience to advocate for hostage release, while mourning remains a luxury we don't have – and two years later, our work continues.

Nothing of this account is intended as support for conflict. I've always been against hostilities from the beginning. The people of Gaza have suffered terribly.

I'm shocked by political choices, yet emphasizing that the organization shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Having seen their atrocities on October 7th. They failed the community – causing suffering for everyone through their deadly philosophy.

The Community Split

Sharing my story with those who defend the violence feels like betraying my dead. The people around me confronts growing prejudice, while my community there has struggled versus leadership throughout this period facing repeated disappointment again and again.

Across the fields, the devastation across the frontier can be seen and visceral. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that numerous people appear to offer to the attackers causes hopelessness.