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It started that morning appearing entirely routine. I rode with my husband and son to pick up our new dog. Everything seemed secure – then reality shattered.

Checking my device, I noticed updates from the border. I tried reaching my mum, expecting her calm response saying they were secure. Silence. My parent couldn't be reached. Next, I reached my brother – his voice instantly communicated the terrible truth prior to he said anything.

The Unfolding Tragedy

I've witnessed numerous faces through news coverage whose existence were destroyed. Their gaze demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Now it was me. The floodwaters of horror were overwhelming, with the wreckage remained chaotic.

My young one looked at me from his screen. I shifted to make calls alone. When we got to the station, I saw the brutal execution of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the attackers who seized her house.

I recall believing: "Not a single of our family will survive."

Eventually, I saw footage revealing blazes erupting from our house. Despite this, in the following days, I couldn't believe the building was gone – before my family sent me images and proof.

The Aftermath

When we reached the city, I phoned the puppy provider. "Hostilities has erupted," I explained. "My parents are probably dead. Our neighborhood has been taken over by militants."

The ride back was spent attempting to reach community members and at the same time guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that circulated everywhere.

The scenes of that day were beyond anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son seized by several attackers. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of Gaza in a vehicle.

Friends sent digital recordings that defied reality. A senior community member similarly captured across the border. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – children I had played with – seized by attackers, the fear apparent in her expression devastating.

The Painful Period

It seemed to take forever for help to arrive our community. Then began the painful anticipation for updates. Later that afternoon, a lone picture circulated of survivors. My mother and father were missing.

During the following period, as community members worked with authorities locate the missing, we combed the internet for signs of our loved ones. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. There was no recordings showing my parent – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Over time, the reality became clearer. My aged family – along with dozens more – became captives from the community. My parent was in his eighties, my other parent was elderly. In the chaos, a quarter of the residents were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my parent emerged from imprisonment. Before departing, she turned and grasped the hand of the militant. "Hello," she spoke. That gesture – a simple human connection amid unimaginable horror – was broadcast everywhere.

Five hundred and two days following, Dad's body were recovered. He was murdered a short distance from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and the visual proof still terrorize me. The two years since – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has intensified the initial trauma.

My family were lifelong advocates for peace. My mother still is, as are other loved ones. We know that hate and revenge won't provide any comfort from this tragedy.

I compose these words amid sorrow. With each day, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, rather than simpler. The young ones of my friends continue imprisoned along with the pressure of what followed is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I term dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We typically discussing events to campaign for freedom, while mourning seems unaffordable we cannot afford – after 24 months, our efforts continues.

Nothing of this account serves as support for conflict. I have consistently opposed this conflict since it started. The population in the territory experienced pain unimaginably.

I'm appalled by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the organization shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Having seen their atrocities on October 7th. They failed their own people – ensuring tragedy on both sides due to their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story among individuals justifying what happened feels like dishonoring the lost. My local circle faces rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled with the authorities consistently facing repeated disappointment again and again.

Looking over, the ruin in Gaza is visible and painful. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that various individuals seem to grant to militant groups makes me despair.