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It began during that morning appearing perfectly normal. I journeyed accompanied by my family to collect our new dog. Everything seemed predictable – then it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I noticed updates about the border region. I dialed my mum, hoping for her cheerful voice saying she was safe. Nothing. My father didn't respond either. Next, my sibling picked up – his voice already told me the awful reality prior to he said anything.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've seen so many people through news coverage whose lives were destroyed. Their eyes revealing they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of horror were overwhelming, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My son glanced toward me from his screen. I moved to contact people in private. When we reached the city, I encountered the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the militants who took over her home.

I thought to myself: "None of our loved ones could live through this."

Later, I saw footage revealing blazes erupting from our house. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – before my family shared with me photographs and evidence.

The Consequences

Upon arriving at the station, I contacted the puppy provider. "Hostilities has started," I told them. "My mother and father may not survive. My community fell to by militants."

The ride back was spent trying to contact loved ones while simultaneously shielding my child from the awful footage that circulated everywhere.

The images from that day transcended any possible expectation. A child from our community taken by multiple terrorists. My former educator taken in the direction of the territory using transportation.

Friends sent social media clips that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted across the border. A woman I knew with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – seized by attackers, the fear visible on her face stunning.

The Long Wait

It seemed interminable for assistance to reach our community. Then commenced the painful anticipation for news. Later that afternoon, one photograph circulated of survivors. My parents weren't there.

Over many days, while neighbors worked with authorities locate the missing, we combed online platforms for evidence of our loved ones. We saw atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Gradually, the situation emerged more fully. My elderly parents – as well as dozens more – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, 25 percent of our community members were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my mother emerged from confinement. Before departing, she turned and offered a handshake of her captor. "Shalom," she uttered. That moment – a simple human connection during indescribable tragedy – was shared globally.

Five hundred and two days following, my parent's physical presence came back. He was killed only kilometers from our home.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and their documentation remain with me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has intensified the primary pain.

My mother and father remained advocates for peace. My parent remains, like many relatives. We know that animosity and retaliation won't provide any comfort from our suffering.

I share these thoughts while crying. With each day, discussing these events grows harder, not easier. The children of my friends are still captive with the burden of what followed remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I describe dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We've become accustomed telling our experience to advocate for freedom, though grieving remains a luxury we cannot afford – and two years later, our campaign continues.

Not one word of this story is intended as support for conflict. I continuously rejected this conflict from the beginning. The population across the border experienced pain unimaginably.

I'm shocked by political choices, but I also insist that the attackers shouldn't be viewed as innocent activists. Because I know what they did during those hours. They abandoned the community – creating pain for all because of their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying the attackers' actions appears as dishonoring the lost. The people around me experiences rising hostility, while my community there has fought versus leadership throughout this period while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

From the border, the ruin in Gaza can be seen and visceral. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that numerous people seem to grant to the organizations causes hopelessness.