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It started on a morning that seemed perfectly normal. I journeyed accompanied by my family to welcome a furry companion. The world appeared secure – before everything changed.

Checking my device, I discovered reports concerning the frontier. I tried reaching my mother, anticipating her calm response telling me everything was fine. Nothing. My dad was also silent. Afterward, my brother answered – his voice immediately revealed the terrible truth prior to he spoke.

The Developing Nightmare

I've witnessed countless individuals on television whose existence were torn apart. Their gaze demonstrating they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The torrent of horror were building, and the debris was still swirling.

My son looked at me across the seat. I shifted to contact people separately. When we reached the station, I encountered the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the attackers who took over her house.

I thought to myself: "Not a single of our family could live through this."

Eventually, I viewed videos revealing blazes bursting through our family home. Despite this, for days afterward, I refused to accept the home had burned – before my brothers sent me images and proof.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at the city, I called the puppy provider. "Conflict has begun," I said. "My family are probably dead. My community was captured by militants."

The ride back consisted of searching for loved ones while also protecting my son from the awful footage that spread across platforms.

The footage during those hours exceeded anything we could imagine. A child from our community taken by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me driven toward the territory in a vehicle.

Friends sent social media clips that seemed impossible. A senior community member also taken into the territory. A woman I knew accompanied by her children – children I had played with – captured by armed terrorists, the terror in her eyes stunning.

The Long Wait

It seemed interminable for the military to come our community. Then began the agonizing wait for news. Later that afternoon, one photograph emerged depicting escapees. My parents were missing.

During the following period, while neighbors assisted investigators identify victims, we scoured the internet for evidence of our loved ones. We encountered torture and mutilation. We never found footage of my father – no evidence about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Over time, the reality grew more distinct. My elderly parents – together with 74 others – were abducted from their home. My father was 83, my mother 85. In the chaos, one in four of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

Seventeen days later, my parent left confinement. Before departing, she looked back and grasped the hand of the militant. "Hello," she uttered. That image – a basic human interaction amid indescribable tragedy – was transmitted worldwide.

Five hundred and two days later, my parent's physical presence came back. He was killed a short distance from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and the recorded evidence remain with me. The two years since – our urgent efforts to save hostages, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has compounded the primary pain.

My family were lifelong advocates for peace. My mother still is, like most of my family. We recognize that animosity and retaliation cannot bring even momentary relief from the pain.

I share these thoughts through tears. As time passes, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, rather than simpler. The kids from my community remain hostages and the weight of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I term remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We typically telling our experience to advocate for the captives, despite sorrow remains a luxury we don't have – and two years later, our campaign endures.

No part of this story is intended as support for conflict. I continuously rejected hostilities from day one. The people across the border experienced pain terribly.

I am horrified by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the attackers cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Having seen their atrocities that day. They failed the population – ensuring pain for all because of their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story with those who defend what happened appears as failing the deceased. My local circle confronts growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought against its government consistently facing repeated disappointment multiple times.

Looking over, the devastation in Gaza appears clearly and painful. It shocks me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that numerous people seem to grant to militant groups creates discouragement.