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It began that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I was traveling together with my loved ones to collect a furry companion. Everything seemed predictable – then reality shattered.

Opening my phone, I noticed reports about the border region. I tried reaching my parent, expecting her reassuring tone saying they were secure. Nothing. My parent couldn't be reached. Next, my sibling picked up – his tone immediately revealed the awful reality even as he spoke.

The Developing Tragedy

I've witnessed countless individuals through news coverage whose worlds had collapsed. Their expressions showing they didn't understand their loss. Now it was me. The torrent of horror were rising, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My young one watched me from his screen. I relocated to make calls separately. When we got to the station, I encountered the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the terrorists who seized her house.

I remember thinking: "Not a single of our family could live through this."

Eventually, I saw footage showing fire consuming our family home. Even then, in the following days, I refused to accept the house was destroyed – before my family provided visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Getting to the city, I called the dog breeder. "Hostilities has started," I told them. "My mother and father are likely gone. My community fell to by attackers."

The ride back involved trying to contact community members and at the same time protecting my son from the horrific images that circulated through networks.

The images from that day exceeded anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son captured by several attackers. Someone who taught me transported to the border on a golf cart.

Individuals circulated digital recordings that defied reality. A senior community member likewise abducted to Gaza. A young mother with her two small sons – boys I knew well – captured by militants, the terror in her eyes paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It felt to take forever for assistance to reach our community. Then started the terrible uncertainty for updates. Later that afternoon, a lone picture circulated of survivors. My mother and father were not among them.

Over many days, while neighbors assisted investigators identify victims, we searched digital spaces for signs of our loved ones. We witnessed brutality and violence. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no evidence about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the situation emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – as well as dozens more – became captives from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, 25 percent of our neighbors were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my mum was released from imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she turned and grasped the hand of the guard. "Shalom," she said. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity amid unimaginable horror – was shared everywhere.

Five hundred and two days later, my parent's physical presence were returned. He was killed just two miles from where we lived.

The Persistent Wound

These events and the recorded evidence remain with me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts for the captives, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has intensified the original wound.

My mother and father remained advocates for peace. My mother still is, similar to other loved ones. We recognize that hate and revenge don't offer the slightest solace from this tragedy.

I write this through tears. As time passes, sharing the experience grows harder, not easier. The children from my community remain hostages and the weight of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I call focusing on the trauma "immersed in suffering". We're used to sharing our story to campaign for freedom, despite sorrow feels like privilege we don't have – now, our efforts continues.

Not one word of this narrative represents support for conflict. I continuously rejected hostilities since it started. The population in the territory have suffered beyond imagination.

I am horrified by political choices, but I also insist that the militants shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed their actions that day. They abandoned the population – creating tragedy on both sides because of their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience with those who defend what happened seems like failing the deceased. My community here confronts growing prejudice, and our people back home has fought against its government for two years facing repeated disappointment again and again.

Looking over, the destruction in Gaza is visible and painful. It appalls me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that various individuals seem to grant to the attackers creates discouragement.