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It began that morning looking completely ordinary. I journeyed together with my loved ones to pick up our new dog. Life felt steady – before reality shattered.

Checking my device, I saw updates concerning the frontier. I called my parent, anticipating her reassuring tone telling me she was safe. Nothing. My dad didn't respond either. Then, my sibling picked up – his tone instantly communicated the terrible truth prior to he explained.

The Developing Tragedy

I've observed countless individuals in media reports whose existence were destroyed. Their gaze revealing they didn't understand what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of violence were building, with the wreckage was still swirling.

My son watched me from his screen. I moved to contact people alone. By the time we got to our destination, I would witness the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the militants who took over her house.

I thought to myself: "None of our friends would make it."

Eventually, I viewed videos revealing blazes bursting through our house. Even then, for days afterward, I refused to accept the building was gone – until my siblings shared with me visual confirmation.

The Consequences

When we reached the city, I phoned the puppy provider. "Hostilities has started," I explained. "My parents may not survive. Our kibbutz was captured by militants."

The ride back was spent attempting to reach loved ones and at the same time shielding my child from the horrific images that spread across platforms.

The scenes of that day transcended anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son seized by several attackers. My mathematics teacher transported to the territory on a golf cart.

Individuals circulated digital recordings that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted into the territory. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – captured by armed terrorists, the horror visible on her face stunning.

The Painful Period

It appeared endless for assistance to reach our community. Then started the agonizing wait for information. In the evening, a single image circulated showing those who made it. My parents weren't there.

For days and weeks, while neighbors helped forensic teams locate the missing, we searched the internet for signs of family members. We encountered atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no evidence about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Eventually, the situation grew more distinct. My aged family – together with 74 others – were abducted from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. During the violence, one in four of our neighbors were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent emerged from captivity. As she left, she glanced behind and shook hands of her captor. "Peace," she spoke. That image – a simple human connection within unimaginable horror – was broadcast globally.

More than sixteen months afterward, my father's remains were recovered. He was killed a short distance from our home.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the primary pain.

Both my parents remained advocates for peace. My parent remains, similar to other loved ones. We know that animosity and retaliation don't offer any comfort from our suffering.

I share these thoughts through tears. As time passes, talking about what happened grows harder, rather than simpler. The young ones belonging to companions are still captive and the weight of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I call dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We've become accustomed telling our experience to fight for freedom, while mourning feels like privilege we lack – after 24 months, our campaign persists.

No part of this story serves as support for conflict. I have consistently opposed the fighting since it started. The people across the border experienced pain unimaginably.

I'm appalled by government decisions, but I also insist that the organization cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed their actions that day. They abandoned the population – causing tragedy on both sides due to their deadly philosophy.

The Community Split

Telling my truth among individuals justifying the attackers' actions feels like betraying my dead. My local circle confronts rising hostility, and our people back home has campaigned with the authorities consistently facing repeated disappointment again and again.

Looking over, the ruin in Gaza can be seen and emotional. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that many seem willing to provide to militant groups causes hopelessness.