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It started on a morning looking completely ordinary. I journeyed accompanied by my family to welcome a new puppy. The world appeared steady – before reality shattered.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered updates from the border. I dialed my mum, hoping for her cheerful voice telling me everything was fine. Silence. My dad didn't respond either. Next, my brother answered – his speech already told me the awful reality before he explained.

The Developing Nightmare

I've observed so many people through news coverage whose lives were destroyed. Their expressions showing they didn't understand their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of horror were building, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My son glanced toward me from his screen. I relocated to contact people separately. When we reached the city, I encountered the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the militants who captured her house.

I remember thinking: "Not a single of our loved ones would make it."

Later, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes erupting from our family home. Even then, for days afterward, I refused to accept the home had burned – before my siblings shared with me images and proof.

The Fallout

Getting to the station, I contacted the dog breeder. "Conflict has begun," I explained. "My parents may not survive. Our kibbutz fell to by militants."

The return trip consisted of searching for community members and at the same time guarding my young one from the awful footage that circulated through networks.

The scenes during those hours transcended any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son seized by several attackers. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of the border in a vehicle.

People shared digital recordings that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured to Gaza. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – children I had played with – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the terror apparent in her expression stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt interminable for help to arrive our community. Then started the agonizing wait for information. In the evening, one photograph circulated depicting escapees. My parents weren't there.

During the following period, as friends assisted investigators identify victims, we combed the internet for traces of our loved ones. We saw atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no clue about his final moments.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the situation grew more distinct. My elderly parents – along with numerous community members – became captives from their home. My father was 83, my mother 85. In the chaos, 25 percent of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent emerged from imprisonment. As she left, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of the militant. "Shalom," she said. That image – a simple human connection amid indescribable tragedy – was shared everywhere.

Over 500 days following, Dad's body were returned. He was killed just two miles from where we lived.

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the primary pain.

My family were lifelong advocates for peace. My parent remains, similar to many relatives. We recognize that hate and revenge don't offer any comfort from our suffering.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. With each day, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The kids of my friends are still captive along with the pressure of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I term focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We're used to discussing events to advocate for the captives, though grieving feels like privilege we don't have – now, our work persists.

Not one word of this account serves as support for conflict. I have consistently opposed hostilities from the beginning. The population across the border have suffered terribly.

I am horrified by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the attackers cannot be considered innocent activists. Having seen their atrocities that day. They abandoned the population – ensuring pain for all because of their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Sharing my story with those who defend the attackers' actions appears as failing the deceased. My local circle experiences rising hostility, while my community there has struggled against its government consistently facing repeated disappointment again and again.

From the border, the destruction of the territory appears clearly and visceral. It appalls me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that various individuals appear to offer to militant groups creates discouragement.