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It started on a morning appearing completely ordinary. I journeyed together with my loved ones to welcome a furry companion. The world appeared secure – until reality shattered.

Glancing at my screen, I saw news concerning the frontier. I called my parent, expecting her cheerful voice telling me everything was fine. No answer. My father didn't respond either. Then, my brother answered – his speech immediately revealed the devastating news prior to he said anything.

The Developing Tragedy

I've witnessed so many people on television whose worlds were destroyed. Their eyes showing they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The torrent of tragedy were overwhelming, and the debris was still swirling.

My son watched me across the seat. I relocated to contact people in private. Once we reached our destination, I encountered the brutal execution of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the attackers who captured her house.

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

Eventually, I witnessed recordings depicting flames consuming our family home. Despite this, later on, I couldn't believe the home had burned – until my siblings shared with me images and proof.

The Aftermath

Getting to the city, I contacted the dog breeder. "A war has begun," I explained. "My mother and father are probably dead. Our neighborhood fell to by attackers."

The journey home was spent trying to contact friends and family while also protecting my son from the terrible visuals that circulated through networks.

The scenes during those hours were beyond all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by armed militants. My former educator driven toward the border using transportation.

Individuals circulated digital recordings that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured to Gaza. A woman I knew with her two small sons – children I had played with – being rounded up by attackers, the fear visible on her face stunning.

The Painful Period

It felt endless for help to arrive the kibbutz. Then started the painful anticipation for news. Later that afternoon, one photograph circulated depicting escapees. My parents were missing.

For days and weeks, as friends worked with authorities locate the missing, we searched online platforms for traces of family members. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. We never found recordings showing my parent – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Over time, the reality emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – as well as dozens more – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my other parent was elderly. During the violence, a quarter of our neighbors were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother emerged from confinement. Prior to leaving, she looked back and offered a handshake of the guard. "Peace," she uttered. That moment – a simple human connection within indescribable tragedy – was broadcast globally.

Five hundred and two days following, Dad's body came back. He died a short distance from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and the visual proof remain with me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the original wound.

My mother and father remained peace activists. My parent remains, similar to other loved ones. We understand that animosity and retaliation won't provide any comfort from our suffering.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. With each day, sharing the experience grows harder, instead of improving. The young ones from my community continue imprisoned along with the pressure of what followed remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I call remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We're used to discussing events to fight for hostage release, despite sorrow feels like privilege we cannot afford – and two years later, our campaign persists.

Nothing of this narrative represents support for conflict. I continuously rejected hostilities since it started. The people across the border have suffered beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the organization are not innocent activists. Because I know their atrocities during those hours. They betrayed their own people – ensuring pain for all through their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth with people supporting the violence seems like failing the deceased. My local circle faces unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought with the authorities for two years facing repeated disappointment again and again.

Looking over, the destruction in Gaza is visible and painful. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that numerous people seem willing to provide to the organizations causes hopelessness.