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It began that morning looking perfectly normal. I rode together with my loved ones to welcome a furry companion. Life felt steady – then it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered reports about the border region. I tried reaching my parent, expecting her reassuring tone explaining they were secure. No answer. My parent couldn't be reached. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his tone immediately revealed the awful reality prior to he said anything.

The Unfolding Tragedy

I've observed countless individuals on television whose worlds were destroyed. Their gaze demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their loss. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of violence were building, amid the destruction was still swirling.

My child glanced toward me across the seat. I moved to make calls separately. By the time we got to our destination, I saw the horrific murder of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the militants who took over her house.

I remember thinking: "Not one of our friends could live through this."

At some point, I witnessed recordings showing fire consuming our house. Even then, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – until my family sent me images and proof.

The Fallout

Getting to the city, I phoned the puppy provider. "A war has erupted," I said. "My family are probably dead. Our neighborhood has been taken over by terrorists."

The return trip involved attempting to reach friends and family while simultaneously guarding my young one from the awful footage that circulated everywhere.

The footage during those hours exceeded anything we could imagine. A child from our community seized by several attackers. My former educator driven toward Gaza using transportation.

Friends sent digital recordings that defied reality. A senior community member likewise abducted into the territory. A woman I knew with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – captured by militants, the fear in her eyes paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It seemed to take forever for help to arrive the kibbutz. Then commenced the painful anticipation for news. Later that afternoon, a single image appeared of survivors. My family weren't there.

During the following period, as community members worked with authorities document losses, we searched the internet for evidence of those missing. We encountered torture and mutilation. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no clue about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the circumstances became clearer. My elderly parents – together with 74 others – were abducted from their home. My parent was in his eighties, my mother 85. Amid the terror, 25 percent of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

Seventeen days later, my mum was released from captivity. Before departing, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of the guard. "Peace," she spoke. That moment – a simple human connection during indescribable tragedy – was transmitted everywhere.

Over 500 days following, Dad's body came back. He was killed just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. The two years since – our determined activism to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the initial trauma.

My family remained campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, as are most of my family. We know that hate and revenge cannot bring any comfort from our suffering.

I share these thoughts through tears. With each day, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The kids from my community remain hostages with the burden of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I describe dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed sharing our story to advocate for hostage release, despite sorrow seems unaffordable we lack – now, our work persists.

Not one word of this narrative serves as support for conflict. I continuously rejected the fighting from day one. The population of Gaza have suffered beyond imagination.

I'm shocked by government decisions, while maintaining that the militants are not peaceful protesters. Because I know their atrocities during those hours. They abandoned their own people – creating suffering for everyone through their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying the violence seems like betraying my dead. My local circle confronts growing prejudice, and our people back home has campaigned versus leadership consistently while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

From the border, the ruin across the frontier appears clearly and painful. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that numerous people seem to grant to the attackers causes hopelessness.