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It started during that morning appearing entirely routine. I was traveling with my husband and son to welcome a new puppy. Life felt steady – until it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered updates from the border. I tried reaching my mother, anticipating her calm response explaining they were secure. Nothing. My dad didn't respond either. Next, my sibling picked up – his voice already told me the awful reality before he spoke.

The Developing Horror

I've observed so many people on television whose lives were destroyed. Their eyes demonstrating they couldn't comprehend their loss. Now it was me. The torrent of tragedy were building, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My son looked at me across the seat. I relocated to contact people alone. By the time we arrived our destination, I would witness the terrible killing of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the militants who captured her home.

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

At some point, I viewed videos depicting flames erupting from our family home. Nonetheless, in the following days, I denied the house was destroyed – before my siblings provided visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

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

The ride back was spent searching for loved ones while simultaneously guarding my young one from the awful footage that spread across platforms.

The footage of that day transcended anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by multiple terrorists. My former educator taken in the direction of the territory on a golf cart.

People shared social media clips appearing unbelievable. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured across the border. A young mother accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – captured by armed terrorists, the fear visible on her face paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It appeared endless for the military to come our community. Then began the painful anticipation for information. As time passed, a lone picture circulated showing those who made it. My mother and father weren't there.

Over many days, while neighbors helped forensic teams document losses, we scoured online platforms for evidence of our loved ones. We encountered torture and mutilation. We never found footage of my father – no indication regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the reality emerged more fully. My elderly parents – along with dozens more – were taken hostage from their home. My father was 83, Mom was 85. During the violence, 25 percent of our neighbors were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my parent was released from confinement. As she left, she glanced behind and shook hands of the militant. "Shalom," she said. That moment – an elemental act of humanity during indescribable tragedy – was shared worldwide.

Five hundred and two days afterward, my parent's physical presence were recovered. He died just two miles from our home.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts for the captives, my parent's awful death, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the original wound.

My family remained peace activists. My parent remains, like most of my family. We recognize that hostility and vengeance cannot bring even momentary relief from our suffering.

I share these thoughts while crying. As time passes, discussing these events grows harder, rather than simpler. The kids from my community are still captive along with the pressure of subsequent events is overwhelming.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I call focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We're used to discussing events to campaign for the captives, despite sorrow seems unaffordable we lack – now, our work endures.

Not one word of this story serves as support for conflict. I've always been against the fighting from day one. The residents of Gaza have suffered beyond imagination.

I'm shocked by government decisions, while maintaining that the organization are not benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed their atrocities on October 7th. They abandoned the population – creating pain for all because of their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience with those who defend what happened feels like failing the deceased. The people around me confronts unprecedented antisemitism, and our people back home has campaigned versus leadership throughout this period while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

Looking over, the ruin across the frontier can be seen and visceral. It shocks me. At the same time, the complete justification that various individuals seem to grant to the organizations causes hopelessness.