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It unfolded that morning appearing completely ordinary. I was traveling accompanied by my family to pick up our new dog. Everything seemed secure – until it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I noticed updates about the border region. I called my mother, expecting her calm response telling me they were secure. No answer. My parent was also silent. Then, my brother answered – his speech instantly communicated the devastating news even as he spoke.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've observed countless individuals through news coverage whose worlds were torn apart. Their expressions demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Now it was me. The torrent of tragedy were building, and the debris was still swirling.

My young one glanced toward me across the seat. I shifted to make calls alone. When we arrived our destination, I would witness the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the militants who captured her home.

I remember thinking: "Not one of our family will survive."

At some point, I saw footage showing fire consuming our house. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the home had burned – before my brothers shared with me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

When we reached our destination, I called the kennel owner. "Conflict has begun," I told them. "My family are probably dead. My community fell to by attackers."

The journey home was spent searching for friends and family while also protecting my son from the terrible visuals that spread across platforms.

The footage during those hours exceeded any possible expectation. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by armed militants. My former educator taken in the direction of the territory using transportation.

People shared digital recordings that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion also taken to Gaza. A young mother with her two small sons – children I had played with – seized by armed terrorists, the fear in her eyes devastating.

The Painful Period

It felt endless for help to arrive the kibbutz. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for news. As time passed, a lone picture emerged of survivors. My mother and father were missing.

For days and weeks, as community members assisted investigators document losses, we scoured digital spaces for traces of our loved ones. We encountered torture and mutilation. We didn't discover footage of my father – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the situation emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – along with numerous community members – were abducted from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. In the chaos, one in four of our community members were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my mother emerged from captivity. Prior to leaving, she looked back and shook hands of the guard. "Peace," she said. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity during unimaginable horror – was transmitted everywhere.

More than sixteen months afterward, my father's remains were recovered. He was murdered just two miles from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These experiences and the recorded evidence remain with me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the primary pain.

Both my parents had always been campaigners for reconciliation. My parent remains, like many relatives. We know that hate and revenge cannot bring the slightest solace from our suffering.

I write this while crying. With each day, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, not easier. The young ones of my friends are still captive along with the pressure of the aftermath feels heavy.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I term dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We typically sharing our story to advocate for the captives, though grieving feels like privilege we don't have – now, our work endures.

Nothing of this story represents support for conflict. I continuously rejected the fighting from the beginning. The population in the territory have suffered unimaginably.

I'm shocked by government decisions, but I also insist that the militants are not innocent activists. Having seen their actions on October 7th. They betrayed their own people – creating suffering for everyone due to their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story with people supporting the attackers' actions feels like dishonoring the lost. The people around me experiences growing prejudice, and our people back home has campaigned against its government for two years and been betrayed multiple times.

Looking over, the destruction across the frontier can be seen and visceral. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that many seem to grant to the attackers creates discouragement.