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It unfolded on a morning that seemed perfectly normal. I was traveling together with my loved ones to welcome a new puppy. Everything seemed predictable – then everything changed.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed reports concerning the frontier. I tried reaching my mum, anticipating her reassuring tone telling me everything was fine. Nothing. My father couldn't be reached. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his voice already told me the devastating news before he spoke.

The Unfolding Horror

I've seen so many people on television whose lives were destroyed. Their expressions showing they hadn't yet processed their loss. Now it was me. The floodwaters of horror were overwhelming, and the debris hadn't settled.

My son looked at me from his screen. I relocated to reach out in private. When we got to our destination, I encountered the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the attackers who seized her residence.

I remember thinking: "Not a single of our friends could live through this."

At some point, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes consuming our residence. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I refused to accept the home had burned – not until my brothers provided photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

Getting to the city, I phoned the kennel owner. "Hostilities has begun," I explained. "My mother and father are probably dead. My community fell to by militants."

The ride back involved searching for community members and at the same time guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that were emerging across platforms.

The scenes of that day transcended anything we could imagine. A child from our community taken by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me driven toward the territory in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated social media clips that defied reality. A senior community member similarly captured into the territory. A young mother with her two small sons – children I had played with – seized by militants, the fear apparent in her expression stunning.

The Painful Period

It felt to take forever for assistance to reach our community. Then commenced the painful anticipation for news. In the evening, a lone picture circulated of survivors. My mother and father weren't there.

Over many days, while neighbors helped forensic teams identify victims, we searched digital spaces for traces of those missing. We witnessed brutality and violence. We didn't discover footage of my father – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the situation emerged more fully. My aged family – together with dozens more – were abducted from their home. My parent was in his eighties, my mother 85. Amid the terror, 25 percent of our community members were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my mother left confinement. Prior to leaving, she turned and grasped the hand of the guard. "Peace," she uttered. That image – a basic human interaction amid indescribable tragedy – was broadcast globally.

Over 500 days later, my father's remains were recovered. He was killed a short distance from our home.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the recorded evidence remain with me. The two years since – our desperate campaign for the captives, my parent's awful death, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the initial trauma.

My family remained peace activists. Mom continues, as are other loved ones. We know that animosity and retaliation cannot bring even momentary relief from our suffering.

I write this through tears. With each day, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, not easier. The young ones belonging to companions continue imprisoned along with the pressure of the aftermath feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I describe remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed discussing events to campaign for hostage release, despite sorrow feels like privilege we don't have – now, our campaign endures.

Nothing of this account is intended as endorsement of violence. I've always been against this conflict from day one. The population of Gaza have suffered beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by political choices, while maintaining that the organization are not benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed their atrocities that day. They failed the population – causing tragedy on both sides due to their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience with those who defend the violence feels like dishonoring the lost. The people around me confronts unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned against its government consistently while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

From the border, the destruction across the frontier can be seen and painful. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that numerous people seem willing to provide to the attackers creates discouragement.