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It unfolded on a morning looking perfectly normal. I was traveling accompanied by my family to pick up our new dog. The world appeared predictable – before everything changed.

Checking my device, I saw updates concerning the frontier. I dialed my mother, expecting her cheerful voice telling me she was safe. Silence. My father couldn't be reached. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his speech already told me the terrible truth prior to he said anything.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've witnessed numerous faces on television whose existence were torn apart. Their expressions revealing they didn't understand their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The torrent of violence were building, and the debris remained chaotic.

My young one glanced toward me across the seat. I relocated to reach out separately. When we got to the station, I saw the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the militants who took over her home.

I thought to myself: "Not a single of our friends would make it."

At some point, I saw footage depicting flames consuming our residence. Despite this, later on, I denied the home had burned – before my brothers provided images and proof.

The Fallout

Getting to the city, I contacted the kennel owner. "Conflict has erupted," I explained. "My family are likely gone. Our kibbutz has been taken over by militants."

The ride back was spent trying to contact community members while also shielding my child from the terrible visuals that spread through networks.

The images of that day were beyond any possible expectation. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by armed militants. My former educator taken in the direction of Gaza in a vehicle.

People shared digital recordings appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend also taken into the territory. A woman I knew and her little boys – children I had played with – captured by armed terrorists, the terror apparent in her expression devastating.

The Painful Period

It seemed interminable for the military to come the area. Then started the terrible uncertainty for information. In the evening, a lone picture appeared depicting escapees. My family were not among them.

For days and weeks, while neighbors assisted investigators locate the missing, we scoured digital spaces for signs of family members. We witnessed torture and mutilation. We didn't discover footage of my father – no indication regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Gradually, the circumstances grew more distinct. My senior mother and father – as well as numerous community members – became captives from the community. My father was 83, my mother 85. Amid the terror, 25 percent of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my mum left captivity. As she left, she looked back and offered a handshake of the guard. "Hello," she spoke. That gesture – a simple human connection within unspeakable violence – was shared worldwide.

Five hundred and two days afterward, my father's remains were returned. He was murdered a short distance from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and the recorded evidence remain with me. Everything that followed – our determined activism to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has intensified the primary pain.

My mother and father had always been advocates for peace. Mom continues, similar to other loved ones. We know that hostility and vengeance don't offer the slightest solace from this tragedy.

I write this amid sorrow. With each day, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, not easier. The children belonging to companions are still captive and the weight of the aftermath feels heavy.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I describe dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We typically discussing events to fight for hostage release, despite sorrow seems unaffordable we lack – after 24 months, our work continues.

Not one word of this account serves as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed hostilities from day one. The residents of Gaza have suffered beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the organization cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Having seen their actions on October 7th. They abandoned the community – ensuring tragedy on both sides due to their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth among individuals justifying the violence feels like dishonoring the lost. My community here faces unprecedented antisemitism, and our people back home has fought with the authorities for two years facing repeated disappointment again and again.

From the border, the destruction in Gaza appears clearly and painful. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that many seem willing to provide to militant groups causes hopelessness.