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It started during that morning that seemed entirely routine. I rode together with my loved ones to pick up a furry companion. The world appeared secure – then reality shattered.

Checking my device, I saw news concerning the frontier. I tried reaching my parent, anticipating her calm response telling me everything was fine. Silence. My dad couldn't be reached. Next, my sibling picked up – his voice immediately revealed the devastating news before he said anything.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've seen numerous faces through news coverage whose lives were destroyed. Their gaze demonstrating they didn't understand their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of tragedy were overwhelming, with the wreckage remained chaotic.

My young one glanced toward me over his laptop. I shifted to contact people in private. When we got to the station, I saw the terrible killing of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the attackers who seized her home.

I recall believing: "Not one of our loved ones will survive."

Eventually, I saw footage depicting flames consuming our residence. Despite this, later on, I denied the home had burned – before my siblings provided visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

Getting to the station, I contacted the dog breeder. "Hostilities has erupted," I explained. "My parents are likely gone. Our neighborhood fell to by terrorists."

The ride back consisted of searching for friends and family and at the same time shielding my child from the awful footage that spread everywhere.

The scenes from that day transcended anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by armed militants. My mathematics teacher driven toward the border in a vehicle.

Friends sent social media clips that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured into the territory. My friend's daughter and her little boys – boys I knew well – seized by armed terrorists, the fear visible on her face devastating.

The Agonizing Delay

It appeared interminable for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then started the terrible uncertainty for news. In the evening, a single image circulated showing those who made it. My family were missing.

For days and weeks, as community members helped forensic teams identify victims, we combed the internet for traces of our loved ones. We encountered atrocities and horrors. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the reality grew more distinct. My senior mother and father – as well as dozens more – became captives from the community. My father was 83, my other parent was elderly. During the violence, one in four of the residents lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum emerged from imprisonment. As she left, she looked back and offered a handshake of the militant. "Hello," she spoke. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity amid unspeakable violence – was transmitted everywhere.

Five hundred and two days following, my father's remains were returned. He died a short distance from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and the recorded evidence remain with me. The two years since – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the original wound.

My family had always been campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, similar to other loved ones. We recognize that hostility and vengeance cannot bring any comfort from the pain.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. With each day, talking about what happened grows harder, not easier. The children belonging to companions remain hostages and the weight of subsequent events is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I term focusing on the trauma "immersed in suffering". We're used to sharing our story to advocate for the captives, though grieving remains a luxury we cannot afford – and two years later, our campaign persists.

Nothing of this narrative serves as support for conflict. I've always been against hostilities from the beginning. The people in the territory experienced pain beyond imagination.

I am horrified by government decisions, while maintaining that the organization are not innocent activists. Since I witnessed what they did during those hours. They betrayed the population – ensuring pain for all through their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience with people supporting what happened seems like betraying my dead. My local circle confronts growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned against its government consistently facing repeated disappointment again and again.

Looking over, the devastation in Gaza appears clearly and emotional. It shocks me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that many appear to offer to the organizations makes me despair.