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It started on a morning that seemed entirely routine. I was traveling accompanied by my family to welcome our new dog. The world appeared steady – until it all shifted.

Checking my device, I noticed updates about the border region. I dialed my parent, anticipating her cheerful voice telling me they were secure. Silence. My parent couldn't be reached. Then, my sibling picked up – his tone instantly communicated the devastating news prior to he spoke.

The Developing Nightmare

I've seen countless individuals on television whose worlds had collapsed. Their expressions showing they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The torrent of tragedy were overwhelming, with the wreckage was still swirling.

My son glanced toward me from his screen. I shifted to contact people alone. When we reached the station, I encountered the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the attackers who took over her home.

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

At some point, I saw footage revealing blazes bursting through our residence. Nonetheless, in the following days, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – until my family sent me photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

Getting to the city, I called the kennel owner. "A war has begun," I told them. "My mother and father are probably dead. Our kibbutz was captured by militants."

The return trip consisted of searching for loved ones while also shielding my child from the horrific images that circulated through networks.

The scenes during those hours exceeded any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son captured by armed militants. My former educator driven toward Gaza in a vehicle.

Friends sent social media clips that seemed impossible. A senior community member also taken across the border. A young mother with her two small sons – children I had played with – captured by militants, the fear in her eyes stunning.

The Painful Period

It felt to take forever for the military to come our community. Then started the terrible uncertainty for updates. In the evening, a lone picture circulated depicting escapees. My mother and father were not among them.

During the following period, while neighbors assisted investigators locate the missing, we scoured digital spaces for signs of those missing. We encountered torture and mutilation. We never found recordings showing my parent – no indication regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Gradually, the circumstances grew more distinct. My senior mother and father – as well as numerous community members – were abducted from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my mother 85. During the violence, a quarter of our neighbors were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my mother left confinement. Before departing, she turned and offered a handshake of her captor. "Peace," she uttered. That moment – a basic human interaction amid unimaginable horror – was transmitted worldwide.

Five hundred and two days following, Dad's body were returned. He died only kilometers from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has worsened the initial trauma.

My mother and father remained campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, like many relatives. We recognize that animosity and retaliation don't offer any comfort from our suffering.

I compose these words while crying. Over the months, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The young ones of my friends are still captive and the weight of subsequent events is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I describe dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We're used to sharing our story to advocate for the captives, though grieving seems unaffordable we lack – now, our campaign endures.

No part of this story is intended as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed the fighting from the beginning. The residents across the border endured tragedy unimaginably.

I'm shocked by leadership actions, while maintaining that the organization are not innocent activists. Since I witnessed their actions during those hours. They abandoned the population – causing tragedy on both sides through their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story among individuals justifying what happened seems like betraying my dead. My community here experiences growing prejudice, while my community there has struggled versus leadership throughout this period facing repeated disappointment again and again.

From the border, the devastation in Gaza can be seen and visceral. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that numerous people seem to grant to the attackers creates discouragement.