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It unfolded on a morning appearing perfectly normal. I rode with my husband and son to pick up a new puppy. Everything seemed predictable – before it all shifted.

Checking my device, I noticed news concerning the frontier. I called my mother, expecting her calm response telling me they were secure. No answer. My father couldn't be reached. Afterward, I reached my brother – his voice immediately revealed the terrible truth even as he spoke.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've observed numerous faces through news coverage whose lives were destroyed. Their expressions revealing they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The torrent of tragedy were overwhelming, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My young one glanced toward me across the seat. I moved to make calls separately. By the time we arrived our destination, I encountered the brutal execution of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the attackers who took over her residence.

I thought to myself: "Not a single of our family would make it."

At some point, I viewed videos depicting flames bursting through our house. Even then, in the following days, I denied the house was destroyed – until my brothers sent me photographs and evidence.

The Fallout

When we reached the station, I phoned the dog breeder. "Conflict has begun," I told them. "My family may not survive. Our kibbutz was captured by attackers."

The return trip involved trying to contact loved ones while also shielding my child from the awful footage that circulated everywhere.

The scenes of that day exceeded anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by multiple terrorists. My former educator taken in the direction of Gaza using transportation.

People shared social media clips that defied reality. A senior community member also taken to Gaza. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – captured by militants, the fear apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It appeared to take forever for help to arrive our community. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for updates. In the evening, one photograph emerged of survivors. My parents were missing.

Over many days, while neighbors assisted investigators identify victims, we scoured the internet for signs of our loved ones. We witnessed torture and mutilation. There was no footage of my father – no clue regarding his experience.

The Emerging Picture

Over time, the circumstances emerged more fully. My aged family – as well as numerous community members – were taken hostage from their home. My parent was in his eighties, my other parent was elderly. During the violence, 25 percent of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my mum left imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and shook hands of the guard. "Hello," she spoke. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity during unspeakable violence – was transmitted worldwide.

More than sixteen months following, my father's remains came back. He died a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and their documentation still terrorize me. Everything that followed – our determined activism to save hostages, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the destruction across the border – has worsened the primary pain.

Both my parents were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, similar to most of my family. We recognize that hostility and vengeance won't provide any comfort from the pain.

I share these thoughts while crying. Over the months, discussing these events becomes more difficult, rather than simpler. The children from my community continue imprisoned along with the pressure of subsequent events is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I term dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We typically telling our experience to advocate for freedom, while mourning remains a luxury we don't have – and two years later, our efforts continues.

Nothing of this account serves as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed this conflict from the beginning. The people of Gaza have suffered unimaginably.

I am horrified by government decisions, while maintaining that the attackers are not benign resistance fighters. Having seen what they did that day. They betrayed the population – creating suffering for everyone through their violent beliefs.

The Community Split

Sharing my story with people supporting the violence seems like betraying my dead. My community here confronts rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled against its government throughout this period while experiencing betrayal again and again.

Looking over, the devastation across the frontier is visible and emotional. It horrifies me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that various individuals seem to grant to the organizations creates discouragement.