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It unfolded on a morning that seemed entirely routine. I journeyed together with my loved ones to pick up a new puppy. The world appeared steady – before reality shattered.

Opening my phone, I discovered reports from the border. I tried reaching my mum, expecting her calm response saying everything was fine. Silence. My father couldn't be reached. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his voice immediately revealed the devastating news even as he spoke.

The Unfolding Horror

I've witnessed so many people in media reports whose existence were destroyed. Their expressions revealing they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The deluge of horror were rising, and the debris hadn't settled.

My young one watched me over his laptop. I moved to make calls separately. Once we arrived the station, I would witness the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the attackers who seized her house.

I remember thinking: "None of our loved ones will survive."

At some point, I viewed videos depicting flames erupting from our family home. Nonetheless, later on, I denied the home had burned – not until my family provided photographs and evidence.

The Consequences

Getting to our destination, I phoned the puppy provider. "A war has started," I told them. "My mother and father are likely gone. My community has been taken over by attackers."

The journey home was spent attempting to reach loved ones while also guarding my young one from the awful footage that circulated across platforms.

The images during those hours were beyond any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son captured by multiple terrorists. My former educator taken in the direction of the border in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated social media clips appearing unbelievable. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured across the border. A young mother and her little boys – boys I knew well – seized by attackers, the horror apparent in her expression stunning.

The Painful Period

It seemed interminable for assistance to reach our community. Then started the agonizing wait for updates. Later that afternoon, one photograph emerged of survivors. My mother and father were missing.

During the following period, as friends assisted investigators document losses, we searched online platforms for signs of family members. We witnessed torture and mutilation. We didn't discover footage of my father – no clue regarding his experience.

The Emerging Picture

Over time, the situation grew more distinct. My elderly parents – together with 74 others – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my mother 85. In the chaos, 25 percent of the residents lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum left confinement. Before departing, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of the guard. "Peace," she said. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity within unimaginable horror – was broadcast worldwide.

More than sixteen months later, my parent's physical presence were returned. He was killed a short distance from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and their documentation remain with me. The two years since – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the destruction across the border – has compounded the original wound.

Both my parents had always been peace activists. My parent remains, as are most of my family. We recognize that hostility and vengeance don't offer the slightest solace from the pain.

I compose these words through tears. With each day, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The children of my friends remain hostages with the burden of what followed is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I call remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We typically discussing events to fight for the captives, despite sorrow remains a luxury we lack – now, our efforts persists.

No part of this story serves as endorsement of violence. I've always been against the fighting from the beginning. The residents of Gaza endured tragedy unimaginably.

I'm shocked by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the militants shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Because I know what they did on October 7th. They failed the community – ensuring pain for all through their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story with those who defend what happened appears as failing the deceased. My local circle experiences growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought versus leadership for two years facing repeated disappointment multiple times.

Across the fields, the destruction across the frontier is visible and painful. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that numerous people seem to grant to the organizations creates discouragement.