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It began on a morning appearing entirely routine. I journeyed accompanied by my family to collect a furry companion. The world appeared steady – before it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I discovered reports concerning the frontier. I dialed my mother, hoping for her reassuring tone explaining everything was fine. No answer. My parent didn't respond either. Then, my brother answered – his speech already told me the terrible truth before he said anything.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've observed so many people on television whose worlds were torn apart. Their gaze demonstrating they didn't understand what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of violence were overwhelming, with the wreckage was still swirling.

My young one watched me from his screen. I shifted to contact people in private. Once we got to our destination, I encountered the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the terrorists who took over her home.

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

Eventually, I saw footage showing fire erupting from our residence. Despite this, in the following days, I couldn't believe the home had burned – not until my siblings provided visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

Getting to the station, I phoned the dog breeder. "A war has started," I said. "My parents are probably dead. My community fell to by terrorists."

The ride back consisted of trying to contact community members and at the same time shielding my child from the awful footage that circulated across platforms.

The scenes from that day transcended all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son captured by several attackers. My mathematics teacher transported to the territory in a vehicle.

Friends sent social media clips that defied reality. A senior community member likewise abducted to Gaza. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – boys I knew well – seized by armed terrorists, the fear in her eyes stunning.

The Long Wait

It felt endless for the military to come the kibbutz. Then started the agonizing wait for information. As time passed, a single image circulated showing those who made it. My mother and father were not among them.

For days and weeks, as friends assisted investigators locate the missing, we combed digital spaces for evidence of family members. We witnessed torture and mutilation. We never found recordings showing my parent – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Emerging Picture

Eventually, the circumstances became clearer. My elderly parents – as well as 74 others – were taken hostage from their home. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. In the chaos, one in four of the residents lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my parent was released from imprisonment. Before departing, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of her captor. "Peace," she said. That gesture – a simple human connection amid unimaginable horror – was transmitted globally.

Over 500 days following, my father's remains were returned. He was murdered only kilometers from the kibbutz.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and the visual proof remain with me. The two years since – our desperate campaign for the captives, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has intensified the original wound.

My family remained advocates for peace. Mom continues, like many relatives. We understand that animosity and retaliation don't offer even momentary relief from our suffering.

I share these thoughts through tears. With each day, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, not easier. The children from my community are still captive along with the pressure of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I term focusing on the trauma "immersed in suffering". We've become accustomed telling our experience to fight for freedom, while mourning seems unaffordable we cannot afford – after 24 months, our campaign persists.

No part of this account is intended as support for conflict. I continuously rejected the fighting since it started. The residents in the territory experienced pain unimaginably.

I'm shocked by leadership actions, while maintaining that the attackers are not peaceful protesters. Because I know their atrocities that day. They failed the community – creating suffering for everyone through their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story with people supporting what happened feels like failing the deceased. The people around me confronts unprecedented antisemitism, and our people back home has fought versus leadership for two years while experiencing betrayal again and again.

Across the fields, the destruction of the territory is visible and emotional. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the moral carte blanche that many seem to grant to the organizations causes hopelessness.