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It unfolded during that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I was traveling with my husband and son to pick up a new puppy. The world appeared predictable – before reality shattered.

Opening my phone, I noticed updates from the border. I tried reaching my mum, hoping for her reassuring tone saying they were secure. Silence. My parent didn't respond either. Afterward, I reached my brother – his speech instantly communicated the terrible truth before he explained.

The Developing Nightmare

I've witnessed numerous faces on television whose existence were destroyed. Their eyes showing they couldn't comprehend their loss. Then it became our turn. The deluge of violence were rising, and the debris remained chaotic.

My young one looked at me over his laptop. I relocated to contact people separately. By the time we got to the station, I saw the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – shown in real-time by the attackers who took over her home.

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

Eventually, I saw footage showing fire bursting through our family home. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I refused to accept the house was destroyed – until my siblings shared with me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Getting to the station, I called the dog breeder. "A war has begun," I explained. "My family are probably dead. Our kibbutz has been taken over by terrorists."

The return trip involved searching for community members and at the same time protecting my son from the horrific images that circulated everywhere.

The scenes during those hours exceeded all comprehension. A child from our community seized by armed militants. My mathematics teacher driven toward the territory using transportation.

Friends sent digital recordings that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend also taken across the border. My friend's daughter and her little boys – children I had played with – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the fear apparent in her expression stunning.

The Painful Period

It appeared to take forever for help to arrive the area. Then commenced the painful anticipation for information. As time passed, a lone picture appeared depicting escapees. My parents weren't there.

During the following period, while neighbors helped forensic teams document losses, we scoured digital spaces for traces of those missing. We witnessed brutality and violence. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no clue about his final moments.

The Developing Reality

Over time, the situation became clearer. My senior mother and father – as well as dozens more – were taken hostage from the community. My father was 83, Mom was 85. During the violence, a quarter of the residents were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum was released from imprisonment. Before departing, she glanced behind and shook hands of the militant. "Peace," she spoke. That image – a simple human connection during unimaginable horror – was transmitted everywhere.

Over 500 days following, my father's remains were recovered. He was murdered just two miles from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These experiences and the recorded evidence remain with me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the primary pain.

Both my parents remained campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, as are most of my family. We understand that hate and revenge cannot bring even momentary relief from our suffering.

I compose these words amid sorrow. Over the months, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The young ones from my community continue imprisoned along with the pressure of the aftermath feels heavy.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I term focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed discussing events to fight for freedom, though grieving remains a luxury we don't have – and two years later, our efforts continues.

Nothing of this narrative serves as endorsement of violence. I've always been against this conflict from the beginning. The residents in the territory have suffered terribly.

I'm shocked by political choices, yet emphasizing that the attackers cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Because I know their atrocities on October 7th. They abandoned their own people – causing pain for all through their violent beliefs.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying the violence feels like failing the deceased. My local circle experiences unprecedented antisemitism, while my community there has campaigned with the authorities throughout this period facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

Looking over, the ruin of the territory can be seen and emotional. It shocks me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that numerous people appear to offer to the organizations creates discouragement.