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It began during that morning that seemed entirely routine. I rode with my husband and son to collect a furry companion. The world appeared predictable – then everything changed.

Opening my phone, I noticed reports about the border region. I dialed my mum, hoping for her calm response saying she was safe. Nothing. My father didn't respond either. Next, my sibling picked up – his speech instantly communicated the terrible truth before he said anything.

The Emerging Horror

I've observed numerous faces on television whose lives were destroyed. Their gaze demonstrating they didn't understand their tragedy. Now it was me. The torrent of violence were overwhelming, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My son looked at me across the seat. I moved to reach out alone. By the time we got to the station, I encountered the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the attackers who captured her residence.

I thought to myself: "None of our friends would make it."

Later, I saw footage depicting flames consuming our house. Nonetheless, in the following days, I denied the building was gone – not until my siblings provided images and proof.

The Consequences

Getting to the station, I called the dog breeder. "Hostilities has started," I explained. "My family may not survive. Our neighborhood was captured by attackers."

The ride back involved searching for community members and at the same time protecting my son from the horrific images that spread through networks.

The images during those hours transcended anything we could imagine. A child from our community captured by several attackers. Someone who taught me driven toward the territory on a golf cart.

Friends sent Telegram videos that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion also taken into the territory. A young mother with her two small sons – children I had played with – seized by attackers, the fear apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It felt interminable for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then started the agonizing wait for news. In the evening, a single image appeared depicting escapees. My family weren't there.

Over many days, as community members helped forensic teams identify victims, we combed the internet for evidence of family members. We encountered torture and mutilation. We didn't discover footage of my father – no evidence about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the circumstances emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – together with numerous community members – were abducted from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, my mother 85. In the chaos, a quarter of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my mother left imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she looked back and offered a handshake of the guard. "Peace," she said. That image – a basic human interaction during unspeakable violence – was broadcast worldwide.

Over 500 days afterward, my parent's physical presence were recovered. He died a short distance from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and the visual proof continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has intensified the original wound.

Both my parents were lifelong advocates for peace. My parent remains, similar to other loved ones. We understand that hostility and vengeance won't provide even momentary relief from our suffering.

I write this through tears. Over the months, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, not easier. The children of my friends remain hostages with the burden of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I call focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed sharing our story to advocate for freedom, despite sorrow feels like privilege we cannot afford – after 24 months, our campaign persists.

Not one word of this story is intended as endorsement of violence. I've always been against hostilities since it started. The people in the territory have suffered unimaginably.

I am horrified by political choices, but I also insist that the attackers shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed their actions that day. They abandoned their own people – creating suffering for everyone because of their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Telling my truth with people supporting what happened appears as dishonoring the lost. My local circle experiences unprecedented antisemitism, and our people back home has struggled with the authorities for two years while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

Looking over, the destruction across the frontier can be seen and painful. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that numerous people appear to offer to the organizations creates discouragement.