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It unfolded during that morning looking perfectly normal. I rode accompanied by my family to welcome our new dog. Everything seemed predictable – then reality shattered.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed updates from the border. I tried reaching my mum, anticipating her cheerful voice saying she was safe. Silence. My parent was also silent. Afterward, I reached my brother – his tone instantly communicated the terrible truth even as he said anything.

The Developing Horror

I've seen countless individuals in media reports whose existence had collapsed. Their gaze revealing they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The torrent of horror were rising, and the debris hadn't settled.

My child glanced toward me across the seat. I moved to reach out separately. Once we reached the station, I encountered the horrific murder of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the militants who captured her home.

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

Later, I saw footage depicting flames bursting through our residence. Despite this, later on, I refused to accept the building was gone – until my family sent me images and proof.

The Aftermath

When we reached the city, I called the dog breeder. "Hostilities has erupted," I explained. "My family are probably dead. Our neighborhood fell to by attackers."

The ride back consisted of searching for friends and family while simultaneously protecting my son from the terrible visuals that were emerging across platforms.

The scenes of that day transcended anything we could imagine. A child from our community captured by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me transported to Gaza using transportation.

People shared social media clips that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured into the territory. A woman I knew and her little boys – children I had played with – seized by attackers, the fear in her eyes stunning.

The Long Wait

It felt endless for help to arrive our community. Then began the agonizing wait for information. Later that afternoon, a lone picture emerged depicting escapees. My family were not among them.

Over many days, while neighbors helped forensic teams locate the missing, we searched digital spaces for traces of those missing. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Over time, the reality emerged more fully. My aged family – together with numerous community members – were abducted from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my mother 85. Amid the terror, one in four of our neighbors were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum left confinement. Before departing, she turned and offered a handshake of her captor. "Peace," she uttered. That image – a simple human connection during unspeakable violence – was broadcast everywhere.

Over 500 days later, my father's remains came back. He was murdered just two miles from our home.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the visual proof remain with me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the primary pain.

Both my parents were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, like most of my family. We understand that animosity and retaliation cannot bring any comfort from our suffering.

I share these thoughts through tears. With each day, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The young ones of my friends continue imprisoned with the burden of what followed remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I term remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We typically telling our experience to campaign for freedom, despite sorrow remains a luxury we cannot afford – after 24 months, our campaign endures.

No part of this story serves as endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected this conflict from day one. The population across the border experienced pain unimaginably.

I am horrified by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the attackers are not peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed what they did during those hours. They betrayed the community – creating pain for all because of their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story with people supporting what happened feels like dishonoring the lost. My community here faces growing prejudice, and our people back home has fought versus leadership consistently while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

Looking over, the destruction in Gaza appears clearly and painful. It shocks me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that numerous people seem willing to provide to the attackers makes me despair.