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It began during that morning appearing completely ordinary. I rode together with my loved ones to welcome a new puppy. The world appeared predictable – until reality shattered.

Glancing at my screen, I saw reports from the border. I dialed my parent, expecting her reassuring tone telling me they were secure. No answer. My father couldn't be reached. Afterward, I reached my brother – his voice immediately revealed the awful reality prior to he explained.

The Emerging Horror

I've observed countless individuals on television whose existence were torn apart. Their expressions revealing they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of tragedy were building, and the debris hadn't settled.

My son looked at me from his screen. I shifted to reach out alone. Once we got to the station, I would witness the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the terrorists who captured her home.

I recall believing: "Not a single of our loved ones could live through this."

Eventually, I saw footage depicting flames erupting from our residence. Nonetheless, later on, I denied the home had burned – not until my family sent me images and proof.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at the station, I contacted the puppy provider. "Conflict has begun," I explained. "My mother and father are probably dead. Our neighborhood was captured by militants."

The ride back consisted of attempting to reach loved ones while simultaneously shielding my child from the horrific images that circulated across platforms.

The scenes from that day transcended all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by several attackers. My former educator taken in the direction of Gaza using transportation.

Friends sent Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend also taken into the territory. A woman I knew with her two small sons – boys I knew well – seized by attackers, the fear visible on her face stunning.

The Painful Period

It appeared to take forever for the military to come the kibbutz. Then commenced the painful anticipation for information. Later that afternoon, a lone picture appeared depicting escapees. My family were not among them.

For days and weeks, as community members worked with authorities identify victims, we searched the internet for signs of those missing. We saw atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the circumstances became clearer. My elderly parents – as well as dozens more – were abducted from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, one in four of our community members were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent left imprisonment. As she left, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of her captor. "Hello," she spoke. That moment – an elemental act of humanity amid indescribable tragedy – was shared everywhere.

Over 500 days afterward, my parent's physical presence came back. He was murdered just two miles from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These events and the recorded evidence remain with me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts for the captives, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the original wound.

My mother and father were lifelong peace activists. Mom continues, like many relatives. We recognize that animosity and retaliation don't offer the slightest solace from the pain.

I compose these words while crying. Over the months, discussing these events grows harder, not easier. The young ones from my community are still captive along with the pressure of what followed is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I term focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We typically discussing events to campaign for hostage release, despite sorrow feels like privilege we don't have – now, our work persists.

No part of this story is intended as justification for war. I have consistently opposed hostilities since it started. The population across the border endured tragedy terribly.

I'm shocked by government decisions, while maintaining that the organization are not benign resistance fighters. Because I know what they did during those hours. They abandoned their own people – causing pain for all because of their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth among individuals justifying the attackers' actions seems like dishonoring the lost. My local circle confronts unprecedented antisemitism, and our people back home has campaigned with the authorities throughout this period and been betrayed multiple times.

Looking over, the devastation across the frontier is visible and visceral. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that various individuals seem willing to provide to the attackers causes hopelessness.