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It unfolded on a morning that seemed entirely routine. I rode accompanied by my family to welcome a new puppy. The world appeared secure – before reality shattered.

Checking my device, I discovered news from the border. I tried reaching my parent, anticipating her cheerful voice saying everything was fine. Nothing. My dad was also silent. Then, I reached my brother – his voice instantly communicated the terrible truth prior to he spoke.

The Developing Horror

I've observed numerous faces on television whose existence were destroyed. Their gaze demonstrating they couldn't comprehend their loss. Then it became our turn. The deluge of violence were overwhelming, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My son watched me from his screen. I relocated to contact people in private. By the time we arrived our destination, I encountered the terrible killing of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the terrorists who captured her home.

I remember thinking: "Not one of our family will survive."

At some point, I saw footage depicting flames bursting through our residence. Even then, later on, I denied the house was destroyed – before my family provided photographs and evidence.

The Fallout

When we reached the city, I phoned the puppy provider. "Conflict has started," I said. "My family may not survive. Our neighborhood was captured by attackers."

The return trip was spent attempting to reach friends and family while also protecting my son from the awful footage that were emerging everywhere.

The footage from that day exceeded all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by several attackers. My mathematics teacher driven toward Gaza in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated digital recordings appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured to Gaza. My friend's daughter and her little boys – boys I knew well – seized by armed terrorists, the horror apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It appeared to take forever for help to arrive the kibbutz. Then commenced the agonizing wait for news. In the evening, one photograph appeared depicting escapees. My parents were missing.

Over many days, while neighbors worked with authorities locate the missing, we scoured online platforms for evidence of our loved ones. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the circumstances became clearer. My senior mother and father – along with numerous community members – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, my mother 85. In the chaos, a quarter of our community members were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my mother left imprisonment. Before departing, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of the guard. "Peace," she said. That moment – a basic human interaction during unspeakable violence – was shared everywhere.

More than sixteen months following, Dad's body were recovered. He was killed just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These events and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism for the captives, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has intensified the primary pain.

Both my parents were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, like most of my family. We understand that hostility and vengeance won't provide the slightest solace from the pain.

I write this while crying. Over the months, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, not easier. The kids belonging to companions continue imprisoned with the burden of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I describe focusing on the trauma "immersed in suffering". We typically telling our experience to fight for freedom, though grieving feels like privilege we lack – after 24 months, our work persists.

Not one word of this narrative represents justification for war. I've always been against hostilities from day one. The population in the territory experienced pain terribly.

I'm shocked by political choices, while maintaining that the organization shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Because I know their actions during those hours. They betrayed the community – ensuring tragedy on both sides due to their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story with people supporting the attackers' actions feels like dishonoring the lost. The people around me experiences growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought with the authorities consistently and been betrayed repeatedly.

From the border, the ruin across the frontier appears clearly and emotional. It horrifies me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that various individuals appear to offer to the organizations creates discouragement.