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It began during that morning looking perfectly normal. I journeyed with my husband and son to collect our new dog. Everything seemed secure – until it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed updates concerning the frontier. I called my parent, anticipating her reassuring tone explaining they were secure. No answer. My father was also silent. Then, my brother answered – his tone immediately revealed the terrible truth even as he explained.

The Emerging Horror

I've witnessed so many people on television whose existence were torn apart. Their expressions revealing they didn't understand their loss. Then it became our turn. The torrent of violence were overwhelming, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My son watched me from his screen. I shifted to make calls in private. By the time we arrived the city, I would witness the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – shown in real-time by the terrorists who captured her residence.

I recall believing: "Not a single of our loved ones would make it."

Eventually, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes bursting through our residence. Despite this, later on, I refused to accept the home had burned – before my family shared with me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at the station, I called the dog breeder. "Hostilities has erupted," I told them. "My parents are likely gone. Our kibbutz has been taken over by attackers."

The return trip was spent attempting to reach loved ones while simultaneously guarding my young one from the horrific images that were emerging through networks.

The scenes of that day transcended all comprehension. A child from our community captured by several attackers. My mathematics teacher driven toward the territory using transportation.

People shared social media clips that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion also taken across the border. A young mother accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the fear in her eyes paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It seemed endless for help to arrive our community. Then began the terrible uncertainty for updates. Later that afternoon, a single image emerged of survivors. My family were not among them.

Over many days, while neighbors worked with authorities identify victims, we combed the internet for traces of our loved ones. We encountered brutality and violence. There was no recordings showing my parent – no clue about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Eventually, the situation became clearer. My elderly parents – along with dozens more – became captives from the community. My father was 83, my other parent was elderly. In the chaos, a quarter of the residents were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother left imprisonment. Before departing, she turned and shook hands of her captor. "Shalom," she uttered. That gesture – a basic human interaction during unimaginable horror – was transmitted worldwide.

Five hundred and two days later, my father's remains were returned. He died a short distance from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and the recorded evidence remain with me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign for the captives, my parent's awful death, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has intensified the initial trauma.

My mother and father were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, as are many relatives. We know that hate and revenge won't provide any comfort from the pain.

I compose these words amid sorrow. As time passes, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The children belonging to companions are still captive and the weight of the aftermath feels heavy.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I describe remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We're used to sharing our story to campaign for freedom, while mourning remains a luxury we cannot afford – and two years later, our campaign endures.

Nothing of this story serves as justification for war. I have consistently opposed hostilities from day one. The residents across the border experienced pain beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the militants are not innocent activists. Because I know their atrocities on October 7th. They failed their own people – ensuring tragedy on both sides through their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying what happened appears as dishonoring the lost. My community here experiences rising hostility, and our people back home has campaigned against its government consistently facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

From the border, the destruction across the frontier appears clearly and visceral. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that various individuals seem willing to provide to the organizations causes hopelessness.