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It unfolded on a morning that seemed entirely routine. I was traveling accompanied by my family to collect a new puppy. Life felt predictable – until reality shattered.

Opening my phone, I noticed reports about the border region. I called my parent, hoping for her calm response saying everything was fine. No answer. My parent was also silent. Next, I reached my brother – his speech immediately revealed the terrible truth prior to he explained.

The Emerging Horror

I've observed so many people on television whose lives were torn apart. Their expressions showing they didn't understand their loss. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of horror were rising, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My child glanced toward me over his laptop. I relocated to make calls in private. Once we got to the city, I saw the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the terrorists who captured her residence.

I recall believing: "None of our friends will survive."

Later, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes erupting from our family home. Even then, later on, I refused to accept the house was destroyed – until my brothers provided visual confirmation.

The Consequences

When we reached our destination, I contacted the dog breeder. "Hostilities has erupted," I explained. "My parents are likely gone. My community has been taken over by terrorists."

The return trip involved trying to contact loved ones while simultaneously protecting my son from the terrible visuals that were emerging through networks.

The images from that day were beyond anything we could imagine. A child from our community captured by several attackers. Someone who taught me taken in the direction of the border on a golf cart.

Friends sent Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted across the border. A young mother and her little boys – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by attackers, the horror visible on her face stunning.

The Painful Period

It seemed endless for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then commenced the painful anticipation for news. Later that afternoon, a single image emerged of survivors. My family were not among them.

During the following period, while neighbors worked with authorities document losses, we scoured online platforms for signs of those missing. We encountered atrocities and horrors. There was no recordings showing my parent – no evidence about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Eventually, the situation emerged more fully. My aged family – as well as 74 others – became captives from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my mother 85. In the chaos, a quarter of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my mum was released from imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of her captor. "Peace," she uttered. That moment – a basic human interaction during indescribable tragedy – was broadcast everywhere.

Over 500 days following, Dad's body were recovered. He was murdered just two miles from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These events and the visual proof remain with me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign to save hostages, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the original wound.

Both my parents remained campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, as are most of my family. We recognize that animosity and retaliation cannot bring any comfort from this tragedy.

I write this through tears. With each day, discussing these events grows harder, instead of improving. The children belonging to companions are still captive and the weight of the aftermath feels heavy.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I describe focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed sharing our story to advocate for hostage release, while mourning remains a luxury we cannot afford – after 24 months, our campaign persists.

No part of this narrative is intended as justification for war. I continuously rejected the fighting from the beginning. The population in the territory endured tragedy unimaginably.

I'm shocked by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the organization cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Having seen what they did during those hours. They failed their own people – creating suffering for everyone through their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth with people supporting what happened appears as failing the deceased. The people around me confronts unprecedented antisemitism, while my community there has fought against its government throughout this period and been betrayed multiple times.

Across the fields, the devastation across the frontier can be seen and visceral. It horrifies me. At the same time, the complete justification that numerous people appear to offer to the organizations makes me despair.