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It unfolded that morning appearing completely ordinary. I journeyed together with my loved ones to pick up a new puppy. Life felt secure – until it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered updates from the border. I called my mother, hoping for her reassuring tone telling me they were secure. Silence. My parent couldn't be reached. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his speech already told me the awful reality prior to he spoke.

The Developing Tragedy

I've seen countless individuals through news coverage whose existence were destroyed. Their gaze demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their loss. Suddenly it was us. The torrent of tragedy were building, and the debris remained chaotic.

My young one watched me from his screen. I moved to make calls in private. By the time we reached our destination, I encountered the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the attackers who seized her house.

I recall believing: "Not a single of our friends would make it."

At some point, I witnessed recordings showing fire consuming our family home. Even then, in the following days, I refused to accept the home had burned – before my brothers sent me photographs and evidence.

The Consequences

Upon arriving at our destination, I contacted the puppy provider. "Conflict has erupted," I explained. "My mother and father are likely gone. Our neighborhood fell to by militants."

The ride back was spent trying to contact friends and family while also protecting my son from the horrific images that circulated across platforms.

The images during those hours were beyond all comprehension. A child from our community captured by several attackers. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of the territory in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated digital recordings that defied reality. A senior community member similarly captured into the territory. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – seized by militants, the fear in her eyes stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It appeared to take forever for assistance to reach our community. Then began the agonizing wait for information. In the evening, a lone picture appeared depicting escapees. My parents were missing.

Over many days, as friends assisted investigators document losses, we combed digital spaces for evidence of those missing. We saw torture and mutilation. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Over time, the situation became clearer. My aged family – along with numerous community members – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. During the violence, 25 percent of our community members were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum left imprisonment. Before departing, she glanced behind and shook hands of her captor. "Shalom," she uttered. That moment – a simple human connection during unimaginable horror – was shared worldwide.

Five hundred and two days later, my father's remains came back. He died only kilometers from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and their documentation continue to haunt me. The two years since – our determined activism to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the original wound.

Both my parents remained advocates for peace. My parent remains, like other loved ones. We recognize that hostility and vengeance don't offer the slightest solace from this tragedy.

I write this while crying. Over the months, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, not easier. The kids belonging to companions continue imprisoned with the burden of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I describe remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We typically discussing events to advocate for the captives, while mourning feels like privilege we cannot afford – now, our efforts endures.

Not one word of this narrative is intended as endorsement of violence. I've always been against hostilities from the beginning. The people across the border have suffered terribly.

I'm shocked by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the militants are not benign resistance fighters. Having seen their atrocities during those hours. They betrayed the community – causing tragedy on both sides through their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story with people supporting what happened seems like betraying my dead. My community here faces growing prejudice, while my community there has fought versus leadership consistently facing repeated disappointment multiple times.

Looking over, the devastation of the territory can be seen and emotional. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that many seem to grant to the attackers creates discouragement.