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It unfolded that morning that seemed entirely routine. I was traveling accompanied by my family to pick up a new puppy. The world appeared steady – before everything changed.

Checking my device, I noticed news concerning the frontier. I called my mother, anticipating her calm response telling me she was safe. Silence. My dad was also silent. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his tone already told me the terrible truth before he said anything.

The Unfolding Tragedy

I've witnessed countless individuals on television whose existence were destroyed. Their gaze revealing they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The torrent of violence were building, and the debris was still swirling.

My young one looked at me from his screen. I relocated to contact people in private. By the time we got to our destination, I would witness the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – a senior citizen – shown in real-time by the attackers who seized her residence.

I recall believing: "Not a single of our loved ones would make it."

At some point, I saw footage showing fire consuming our family home. Despite this, in the following days, I denied the building was gone – before my family provided visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Getting to our destination, I called the dog breeder. "A war has erupted," I told them. "My mother and father are likely gone. Our neighborhood was captured by terrorists."

The return trip was spent searching for community members while also shielding my child from the horrific images that circulated everywhere.

The scenes from that day exceeded anything we could imagine. A child from our community taken by several attackers. My former educator taken in the direction of Gaza in a vehicle.

Friends sent Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured across the border. A young mother and her little boys – kids I recently saw – seized by armed terrorists, the terror apparent in her expression stunning.

The Painful Period

It appeared endless for assistance to reach our community. Then began the painful anticipation for information. As time passed, a lone picture emerged of survivors. My family were missing.

Over many days, as friends helped forensic teams document losses, we searched the internet for traces of our loved ones. We saw atrocities and horrors. We never found footage of my father – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the circumstances grew more distinct. My elderly parents – as well as dozens more – became captives from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my other parent was elderly. During the violence, a quarter of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

Seventeen days later, my parent was released from confinement. Prior to leaving, she looked back and shook hands of the guard. "Shalom," she said. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity during indescribable tragedy – was broadcast globally.

More than sixteen months later, Dad's body came back. He was killed just two miles from our home.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and the recorded evidence remain with me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts to save hostages, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the initial trauma.

Both my parents remained peace activists. Mom continues, as are other loved ones. We know that hate and revenge won't provide any comfort from our suffering.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. Over the months, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, not easier. The young ones belonging to companions continue imprisoned along with the pressure of subsequent events is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I call focusing on the trauma "immersed in suffering". We typically sharing our story to campaign for hostage release, despite sorrow remains a luxury we don't have – after 24 months, our campaign endures.

No part of this narrative represents endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed this conflict from the beginning. The population of Gaza experienced pain terribly.

I am horrified by political choices, but I also insist that the attackers shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed what they did that day. They failed the community – causing tragedy on both sides due to their violent beliefs.

The Community Split

Telling my truth with those who defend the violence feels like dishonoring the lost. My local circle confronts growing prejudice, while my community there has campaigned with the authorities consistently while experiencing betrayal again and again.

Looking over, the ruin across the frontier is visible and visceral. It shocks me. At the same time, the complete justification that numerous people appear to offer to militant groups creates discouragement.