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It started that morning that seemed entirely routine. I was traveling with my husband and son to pick up our new dog. Life felt secure – until it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered reports concerning the frontier. I called my parent, anticipating her calm response saying they were secure. Silence. My dad didn't respond either. Next, I reached my brother – his voice instantly communicated the terrible truth prior to he explained.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've observed countless individuals on television whose existence had collapsed. Their gaze demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The deluge of violence were overwhelming, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My son glanced toward me over his laptop. I moved to reach out separately. Once we reached the station, I encountered the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the militants who seized her house.

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

Later, I viewed videos showing fire bursting through our family home. Despite this, in the following days, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – until my siblings shared with me images and proof.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at our destination, I contacted the kennel owner. "Conflict has started," I told them. "My parents may not survive. Our neighborhood was captured by attackers."

The return trip involved attempting to reach friends and family while also protecting my son from the terrible visuals that circulated across platforms.

The images from that day transcended anything we could imagine. A child from our community seized by several attackers. My former educator transported to the territory using transportation.

People shared social media clips that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured across the border. A young mother accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – seized by attackers, the fear apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It seemed interminable for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for updates. In the evening, one photograph circulated depicting escapees. My mother and father were not among them.

During the following period, as friends helped forensic teams locate the missing, we scoured digital spaces for evidence of our loved ones. We witnessed brutality and violence. We didn't discover footage of my father – no indication regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Over time, the circumstances grew more distinct. My elderly parents – along with dozens more – were abducted from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. Amid the terror, 25 percent of the residents lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my mother was released from imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and shook hands of the guard. "Peace," she said. That moment – an elemental act of humanity within indescribable tragedy – was shared worldwide.

Five hundred and two days following, my parent's physical presence were returned. He was killed just two miles from our home.

The Continuing Trauma

These events 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 compounded the initial trauma.

Both my parents remained peace activists. Mom continues, as are many relatives. We understand that animosity and retaliation cannot bring the slightest solace from the pain.

I share these thoughts while crying. Over the months, sharing the experience grows harder, not easier. The kids of my friends are still captive with the burden of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I term remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We typically discussing events to fight for the captives, while mourning feels like privilege we don't have – now, our work persists.

Not one word of this narrative represents justification for war. I continuously rejected the fighting from day one. The people across the border experienced pain unimaginably.

I'm appalled by leadership actions, but I also insist that the attackers cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed their actions during those hours. They betrayed their own people – ensuring pain for all because of their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth among individuals justifying the violence seems like failing the deceased. My community here experiences growing prejudice, while my community there has campaigned with the authorities for two years and been betrayed again and again.

Looking over, the ruin in Gaza is visible and painful. It shocks me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that various individuals appear to offer to the attackers causes hopelessness.