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It unfolded on a morning that seemed completely ordinary. I was traveling accompanied by my family to collect a furry companion. The world appeared predictable – then everything changed.

Checking my device, I discovered news concerning the frontier. I tried reaching my parent, anticipating her calm response telling me they were secure. No answer. My dad didn't respond either. Next, my brother answered – his speech already told me the terrible truth even as he said anything.

The Developing Nightmare

I've observed so many people through news coverage whose lives were torn apart. Their eyes showing they didn't understand their loss. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of violence were building, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My young one looked at me across the seat. I moved to reach out separately. By the time we got to the city, I would witness the horrific murder of a woman from my past – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the militants who captured her home.

I remember thinking: "None of our friends would make it."

At some point, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes bursting through our family home. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I denied the home had burned – until my family provided visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

When we reached our destination, I contacted the kennel owner. "Hostilities has started," I explained. "My mother and father may not survive. My community has been taken over by militants."

The ride back was spent attempting to reach friends and family and at the same time guarding my young one from the awful footage that circulated across platforms.

The footage during those hours transcended any possible expectation. A child from our community captured by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher driven toward the border using transportation.

Individuals circulated social media clips that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted into the territory. A young mother and her little boys – kids I recently saw – captured by armed terrorists, the horror visible on her face devastating.

The Agonizing Delay

It appeared interminable for help to arrive the kibbutz. Then began the terrible uncertainty for updates. As time passed, a lone picture circulated showing those who made it. My mother and father weren't there.

Over many days, as friends worked with authorities document losses, we combed online platforms for traces of family members. We saw brutality and violence. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no indication about his final moments.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the situation emerged more fully. My elderly parents – along with dozens more – became captives from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, 25 percent of the residents were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my mum was released from captivity. Prior to leaving, she looked back and grasped the hand of the guard. "Peace," she spoke. That image – an elemental act of humanity during unimaginable horror – was broadcast everywhere.

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

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and their documentation remain with me. The two years since – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the original wound.

My mother and father had always been advocates for peace. My mother still is, like other loved ones. We understand that hostility and vengeance won't provide even momentary relief from the pain.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. With each day, sharing the experience grows harder, not easier. The kids of my friends are still captive along with the pressure of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I describe focusing on the trauma "immersed in suffering". We typically sharing our story to fight for the captives, despite sorrow remains a luxury we cannot afford – and two years later, our work persists.

Nothing of this story represents endorsement of violence. I've always been against this conflict from day one. The population of Gaza experienced pain beyond imagination.

I am horrified by political choices, but I also insist that the attackers shouldn't be viewed as innocent activists. Since I witnessed their actions on October 7th. They betrayed the community – creating suffering for everyone through their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience with those who defend what happened feels like failing the deceased. The people around me confronts rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought with the authorities consistently and been betrayed multiple times.

From the border, the devastation of the territory can be seen and emotional. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that various individuals seem to grant to the attackers causes hopelessness.