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It unfolded that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I journeyed accompanied by my family to pick up a new puppy. Life felt predictable – before reality shattered.

Opening my phone, I saw updates about the border region. I called my mother, anticipating her reassuring tone telling me they were secure. No answer. My father didn't respond either. Then, I reached my brother – his speech immediately revealed the terrible truth even as he explained.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've witnessed countless individuals through news coverage whose worlds were destroyed. Their eyes demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their loss. Now it was me. The torrent of horror were rising, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My young one watched me over his laptop. I relocated to reach out in private. By the time we arrived our destination, I would witness the terrible killing of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the militants who seized her residence.

I remember thinking: "None of our friends could live through this."

Later, I saw footage depicting flames erupting from our house. Despite this, for days afterward, I refused to accept the home had burned – not until my family sent me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

When we reached our destination, I phoned the puppy provider. "Hostilities has erupted," I said. "My family are probably dead. Our neighborhood fell to by terrorists."

The journey home was spent trying to contact loved ones while simultaneously guarding my young one from the awful footage that were emerging across platforms.

The footage of that day transcended anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son taken by armed militants. My former educator driven toward the territory on a golf cart.

People shared digital recordings that defied reality. A senior community member likewise abducted to Gaza. A woman I knew accompanied by her children – children I had played with – being rounded up by militants, the horror visible on her face devastating.

The Painful Period

It felt to take forever for assistance to reach the area. Then began the painful anticipation for updates. Later that afternoon, one photograph circulated depicting escapees. My parents were missing.

Over many days, as friends assisted investigators locate the missing, we searched digital spaces for traces of family members. We encountered brutality and violence. There was no recordings showing my parent – no clue about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the circumstances grew more distinct. My senior mother and father – as well as dozens more – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. My father was 83, Mom was 85. During the violence, one in four of the residents were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my parent was released from imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and shook hands of her captor. "Shalom," she spoke. That gesture – a simple human connection amid indescribable tragedy – was broadcast worldwide.

Five hundred and two days later, Dad's body came back. He died a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These experiences and the visual proof continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts for the captives, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the original wound.

My family had always been advocates for peace. My parent remains, like other loved ones. We understand that hostility and vengeance don't offer even momentary relief from the pain.

I share these thoughts while crying. As time passes, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The young ones from my community are still captive and the weight of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I describe dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We typically discussing events to campaign for the captives, though grieving seems unaffordable we cannot afford – now, our work endures.

No part of this account serves as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed hostilities from the beginning. The population across the border experienced pain beyond imagination.

I am horrified by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the militants shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Because I know their atrocities on October 7th. They abandoned the population – ensuring pain for all because of their violent beliefs.

The Community Split

Sharing my story with people supporting the attackers' actions appears as betraying my dead. My community here faces unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought against its government for two years facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

Looking over, the destruction in Gaza appears clearly and visceral. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that various individuals seem to grant to militant groups creates discouragement.