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It unfolded on a morning looking entirely routine. I journeyed together with my loved ones to pick up a furry companion. Everything seemed secure – until it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered news from the border. I called my mother, hoping for her calm response explaining they were secure. Nothing. My father didn't respond either. Next, I reached my brother – his speech instantly communicated the devastating news prior to he spoke.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've seen so many people through news coverage whose lives were torn apart. Their gaze showing they didn't understand their loss. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of tragedy were rising, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My child watched me across the seat. I moved to contact people separately. When we reached the station, I saw the terrible killing of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the militants who seized her residence.

I thought to myself: "Not a single of our family will survive."

Later, I viewed videos depicting flames bursting through our residence. Despite this, later on, I refused to accept the building was gone – not until my family sent me photographs and evidence.

The Fallout

When we reached the city, I phoned the kennel owner. "Conflict has started," I told them. "My mother and father may not survive. Our neighborhood fell to by terrorists."

The ride back consisted of trying to contact friends and family while simultaneously protecting my son from the terrible visuals that circulated across platforms.

The images of that day exceeded all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son seized by multiple terrorists. My former educator transported to the border in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated digital recordings appearing unbelievable. A senior community member likewise abducted across the border. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – boys I knew well – captured by armed terrorists, the terror apparent in her expression devastating.

The Long Wait

It appeared endless for help to arrive our community. Then started the agonizing wait for updates. Later that afternoon, one photograph appeared showing those who made it. My parents weren't there.

Over many days, as friends helped forensic teams document losses, we combed online platforms for traces of our loved ones. We saw torture and mutilation. We never found recordings showing my parent – no evidence about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the circumstances emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – as well as dozens more – were taken hostage from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. During the violence, a quarter of the residents were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my parent left imprisonment. As she left, she looked back and offered a handshake of her captor. "Hello," she said. That moment – a basic human interaction amid indescribable tragedy – was broadcast globally.

Five hundred and two days following, my father's remains came back. He was murdered a short distance from our home.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and their documentation remain with me. The two years since – our desperate campaign to save hostages, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the original wound.

My mother and father remained campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, like many relatives. We understand that animosity and retaliation cannot bring the slightest solace from our suffering.

I write this amid sorrow. Over the months, talking about what happened grows harder, rather than simpler. The kids belonging to companions are still captive and the weight of what followed feels heavy.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I term remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed sharing our story to fight for the captives, though grieving remains a luxury we lack – now, our efforts continues.

Nothing of this account is intended as justification for war. I have consistently opposed this conflict since it started. The population in the territory have suffered unimaginably.

I'm appalled by political choices, yet emphasizing that the organization shouldn't be viewed as innocent activists. Since I witnessed their actions on October 7th. They betrayed the population – causing pain for all due to their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story with those who defend what happened seems like failing the deceased. The people around me experiences growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought against its government consistently while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

Across the fields, the devastation of the territory is visible and visceral. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that numerous people seem to grant to militant groups causes hopelessness.