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It unfolded during that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I rode accompanied by my family to collect a new puppy. The world appeared secure – until it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed news from the border. I called my parent, anticipating her calm response telling me they were secure. Silence. My father was also silent. Next, my brother answered – his tone immediately revealed the terrible truth before he spoke.

The Unfolding Tragedy

I've witnessed numerous faces on television whose existence had collapsed. Their expressions demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The deluge of tragedy were rising, and the debris remained chaotic.

My child watched me from his screen. I moved to make calls separately. When we got to the city, I encountered the horrific murder of a woman from my past – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the terrorists who captured her house.

I recall believing: "Not a single of our family will survive."

Later, I witnessed recordings showing fire erupting from our residence. Nonetheless, later on, I refused to accept the house was destroyed – until my siblings shared with me images and proof.

The Fallout

Getting to our destination, I contacted the puppy provider. "Conflict has erupted," I explained. "My mother and father may not survive. Our neighborhood has been taken over by militants."

The journey home consisted of searching for loved ones and at the same time shielding my child from the terrible visuals that spread through networks.

The scenes during those hours exceeded all comprehension. A child from our community taken by several attackers. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of the border using transportation.

Individuals circulated social media clips that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured across the border. A young mother with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by militants, the terror in her eyes paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It appeared endless for assistance to reach our community. Then started the agonizing wait for news. As time passed, a lone picture emerged depicting escapees. My mother and father weren't there.

Over many days, as community members worked with authorities document losses, we scoured online platforms for evidence of family members. We saw brutality and violence. We didn't discover footage of my father – no evidence about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the circumstances became clearer. My elderly parents – together with numerous community members – were abducted from their home. My father was 83, Mom was 85. In the chaos, a quarter of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my parent emerged from imprisonment. Before departing, she turned and shook hands of the guard. "Shalom," she said. That moment – a basic human interaction within unimaginable horror – was shared globally.

More than sixteen months following, Dad's body were returned. He died just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and their documentation continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has intensified the primary pain.

My mother and father had always been campaigners for reconciliation. My parent remains, as are many relatives. We recognize that hostility and vengeance won't provide the slightest solace from the pain.

I share these thoughts while crying. As time passes, sharing the experience grows harder, rather than simpler. The kids from my community continue imprisoned with the burden of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I term remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We've become accustomed telling our experience to campaign for the captives, though grieving remains a luxury we cannot afford – now, our work endures.

Not one word of this narrative represents support for conflict. I continuously rejected the fighting since it started. The people in the territory endured tragedy terribly.

I am horrified by political choices, but I also insist that the organization are not innocent activists. Since I witnessed their actions that day. They abandoned their own people – causing pain for all through their violent beliefs.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience with those who defend what happened appears as dishonoring the lost. My local circle experiences rising hostility, and our people back home has struggled against its government throughout this period while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

Looking over, the destruction in Gaza is visible and painful. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that various individuals appear to offer to the organizations causes hopelessness.