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It started on a morning that seemed perfectly normal. I was traveling accompanied by my family to collect a new puppy. Life felt steady – before it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed updates from the border. I dialed my parent, expecting her cheerful voice saying everything was fine. No answer. My parent didn't respond either. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his speech instantly communicated the devastating news prior to he spoke.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've observed numerous faces on television whose lives had collapsed. Their eyes demonstrating they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Now it was me. The deluge of horror were building, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My young one looked at me from his screen. I moved to contact people separately. When we got to our destination, I would witness the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the attackers who seized her house.

I thought to myself: "Not a single of our loved ones would make it."

Later, I saw footage depicting flames erupting from our residence. Even then, in the following days, I denied the building was gone – not until my brothers shared with me images and proof.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at our destination, I phoned the dog breeder. "Hostilities has begun," I explained. "My parents are likely gone. Our kibbutz fell to by militants."

The return trip involved trying to contact friends and family while simultaneously shielding my child from the awful footage that circulated everywhere.

The footage of that day transcended all comprehension. A child from our community captured by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher transported to Gaza in a vehicle.

People shared digital recordings appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend also taken into the territory. A young mother with her two small sons – boys I knew well – being rounded up by attackers, the horror visible on her face devastating.

The Long Wait

It felt to take forever for help to arrive the area. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for updates. Later that afternoon, a lone picture emerged depicting escapees. My parents were not among them.

For days and weeks, while neighbors worked with authorities document losses, we searched online platforms for evidence of family members. We witnessed torture and mutilation. There was no recordings showing my parent – no clue about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Over time, the circumstances became clearer. My senior mother and father – together with dozens more – became captives from their home. My father was 83, my mother 85. Amid the terror, 25 percent of our neighbors were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum was released from captivity. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of the militant. "Hello," she uttered. That moment – a basic human interaction during unspeakable violence – was broadcast everywhere.

Five hundred and two days following, my parent's physical presence were recovered. He was killed only kilometers from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These events and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the original wound.

Both my parents were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, as are many relatives. We know that hostility and vengeance cannot bring even momentary relief from our suffering.

I compose these words through tears. As time passes, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, not easier. The kids from my community are still captive with the burden of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I call dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We've become accustomed telling our experience to campaign for freedom, though grieving remains a luxury we lack – and two years later, our efforts persists.

No part of this story represents support for conflict. I've always been against hostilities from day one. The residents across the border have suffered unimaginably.

I am horrified by government decisions, while maintaining that the attackers shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Because I know their actions during those hours. They failed the community – ensuring suffering for everyone because of their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story with people supporting the violence seems like betraying my dead. My community here experiences rising hostility, while my community there has fought with the authorities throughout this period facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

Looking over, the ruin across the frontier appears clearly and emotional. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that many appear to offer to the attackers makes me despair.