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It began on a morning appearing completely ordinary. I was traveling together with my loved ones to pick up a furry companion. Life felt secure – until it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed reports from the border. I dialed my mother, expecting her reassuring tone explaining everything was fine. Silence. My dad didn't respond either. Next, I reached my brother – his voice immediately revealed the devastating news even as he spoke.

The Developing Tragedy

I've seen numerous faces on television whose existence had collapsed. Their gaze showing they didn't understand their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The torrent of violence were building, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My child glanced toward me over his laptop. I shifted to reach out separately. By the time we reached the city, I saw the horrific murder of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the terrorists who took over her residence.

I remember thinking: "None of our friends will survive."

Eventually, I witnessed recordings depicting flames bursting through our house. Nonetheless, later on, I refused to accept the home had burned – before my siblings provided visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

Getting to our destination, I phoned the kennel owner. "Hostilities has erupted," I explained. "My parents may not survive. Our kibbutz fell to by militants."

The ride back was spent searching for friends and family while also protecting my son from the terrible visuals that circulated everywhere.

The images from that day exceeded all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son taken by armed militants. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of the territory in a vehicle.

Friends sent Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. My mother's elderly companion likewise abducted across the border. My friend's daughter and her little boys – children I had played with – captured by armed terrorists, the horror visible on her face devastating.

The Long Wait

It seemed to take forever for assistance to reach the area. Then started the agonizing wait for updates. Later that afternoon, a single image circulated showing those who made it. My mother and father were missing.

During the following period, as community members worked with authorities locate the missing, we combed digital spaces for evidence of family members. We encountered atrocities and horrors. We never found recordings showing my parent – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Gradually, the circumstances became clearer. My elderly parents – along with 74 others – were abducted from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. During the violence, one in four of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum was released from captivity. As she left, she glanced behind and shook hands of the guard. "Shalom," she said. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity within unspeakable violence – was transmitted worldwide.

More than sixteen months later, my father's remains were recovered. He died only kilometers from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and the recorded evidence remain with me. The two years since – our urgent efforts for the captives, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the original wound.

My mother and father remained advocates for peace. My mother still is, as are most of my family. We understand that animosity and retaliation don't offer even momentary relief from this tragedy.

I write this amid sorrow. With each day, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The young ones belonging to companions are still captive with the burden of the aftermath feels heavy.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I term focusing on the trauma "immersed in suffering". We've become accustomed sharing our story to fight for hostage release, despite sorrow seems unaffordable we lack – after 24 months, our campaign endures.

Nothing of this account is intended as support for conflict. I've always been against the fighting from day one. The population of Gaza experienced pain unimaginably.

I am horrified by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the militants cannot be considered innocent activists. Since I witnessed their actions that day. They betrayed the community – ensuring pain for all because of their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience with those who defend what happened appears as betraying my dead. My local circle faces unprecedented antisemitism, while my community there has campaigned versus leadership consistently facing repeated disappointment multiple times.

Looking over, the ruin across the frontier is visible and painful. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the moral carte blanche that many seem willing to provide to the attackers creates discouragement.