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It started that morning that seemed perfectly normal. I journeyed with my husband and son to welcome a new puppy. The world appeared secure – before reality shattered.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed reports concerning the frontier. I called my parent, expecting her calm response explaining they were secure. Nothing. My father couldn't be reached. Next, my brother answered – his voice instantly communicated the awful reality even as he explained.

The Unfolding Horror

I've seen so many people through news coverage whose worlds were destroyed. Their eyes demonstrating they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of horror were overwhelming, and the debris hadn't settled.

My child glanced toward me across the seat. I moved to reach out in private. By the time we got to the city, I encountered the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the terrorists who captured her house.

I thought to myself: "Not one of our family will survive."

Eventually, I saw footage showing fire consuming our family home. Despite this, for days afterward, I denied the building was gone – before my siblings shared with me images and proof.

The Consequences

Getting to the station, I phoned the kennel owner. "A war has begun," I explained. "My family may not survive. Our kibbutz fell to by attackers."

The return trip consisted of attempting to reach community members and at the same time guarding my young one from the awful footage that spread everywhere.

The scenes of that day were beyond all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son taken by several attackers. My former educator transported to the border on a golf cart.

Friends sent digital recordings that defied reality. A senior community member likewise abducted to Gaza. A woman I knew and her little boys – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by militants, the terror visible on her face stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt to take forever for help to arrive our community. Then began the terrible uncertainty for information. In the evening, one photograph circulated showing those who made it. My family were missing.

During the following period, as friends worked with authorities identify victims, we scoured digital spaces for evidence of family members. We saw torture and mutilation. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the reality emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – as well as dozens more – were taken hostage from the community. My father was 83, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, a quarter of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

Seventeen days later, my parent was released from captivity. Prior to leaving, she turned and grasped the hand of the militant. "Shalom," she uttered. That gesture – a basic human interaction during unspeakable violence – was shared worldwide.

More than sixteen months following, my parent's physical presence were returned. He was killed only kilometers from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These events and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the ongoing war, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the original wound.

Both my parents were lifelong advocates for peace. My mother still is, similar to many relatives. We understand that hostility and vengeance don't offer even momentary relief from our suffering.

I write this through tears. Over the months, talking about what happened grows harder, rather than simpler. The young ones from my community continue imprisoned along with the pressure of what followed feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I term focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We're used to discussing events to advocate for the captives, despite sorrow seems unaffordable we don't have – and two years later, our work persists.

Nothing of this narrative is intended as support for conflict. I have consistently opposed the fighting from day one. The residents of Gaza have suffered unimaginably.

I am horrified by political choices, yet emphasizing that the attackers shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Having seen their atrocities during those hours. They abandoned the community – creating pain for all through their violent beliefs.

The Community Split

Sharing my story with people supporting the violence seems like dishonoring the lost. The people around me faces unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned versus leadership consistently facing repeated disappointment again and again.

From the border, the destruction across the frontier appears clearly and emotional. It appalls me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that many seem to grant to militant groups causes hopelessness.