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It started during that morning that seemed perfectly normal. I rode together with my loved ones to pick up our new dog. Everything seemed secure – then it all shifted.

Checking my device, I saw updates about the border region. I dialed my mum, anticipating her reassuring tone explaining she was safe. Silence. My dad didn't respond either. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his speech instantly communicated the devastating news prior to he spoke.

The Developing Tragedy

I've observed so many people on television whose existence were destroyed. Their eyes demonstrating they couldn't comprehend their loss. Then it became our turn. The torrent of violence were rising, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My child watched me across the seat. I relocated to reach out separately. Once we got to our destination, I encountered the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the militants who took over her home.

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

Later, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes bursting through our residence. Nonetheless, in the following days, I refused to accept the home had burned – not until my family provided images and proof.

The Consequences

When we reached the city, I called the puppy provider. "A war has begun," I told them. "My mother and father are likely gone. My community was captured by terrorists."

The ride back involved attempting to reach community members and at the same time protecting my son from the awful footage that were emerging everywhere.

The images of that day exceeded any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son seized by several attackers. My former educator driven toward Gaza using transportation.

People shared social media clips that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion likewise abducted across the border. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – captured by militants, the horror apparent in her expression stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt endless for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then began the agonizing wait for updates. In the evening, a single image appeared showing those who made it. My mother and father were not among them.

Over many days, as friends helped forensic teams identify victims, we scoured the internet for evidence of family members. We encountered torture and mutilation. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the circumstances became clearer. My senior mother and father – as well as dozens more – were abducted from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, a quarter of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

Seventeen days later, my parent was released from captivity. Before departing, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of her captor. "Peace," she uttered. That image – a simple human connection within unspeakable violence – was transmitted globally.

More than sixteen months afterward, my parent's physical presence were returned. He was killed only kilometers from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and the visual proof remain with me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign to save hostages, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has worsened the primary pain.

My family were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. My parent remains, like other loved ones. We recognize that animosity and retaliation won't provide even momentary relief from this tragedy.

I write this through tears. As time passes, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, not easier. The kids belonging to companions continue imprisoned and the weight of the aftermath feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I describe remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We're used to telling our experience to fight for freedom, while mourning seems unaffordable we lack – after 24 months, our work endures.

Nothing of this narrative represents support for conflict. I continuously rejected the fighting from the beginning. The population across the border have suffered unimaginably.

I'm appalled by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the militants shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed what they did during those hours. They abandoned their own people – causing tragedy on both sides because of their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth among individuals justifying what happened feels like betraying my dead. My local circle experiences rising hostility, while my community there has fought with the authorities for two years facing repeated disappointment again and again.

Across the fields, the destruction across the frontier can be seen and emotional. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that various individuals seem to grant to militant groups causes hopelessness.