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It started during that morning that seemed perfectly normal. I was traveling accompanied by my family to collect our new dog. Everything seemed steady – until it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I noticed updates concerning the frontier. I tried reaching my parent, anticipating her reassuring tone telling me they were secure. Silence. My parent didn't respond either. Then, my brother answered – his voice instantly communicated the terrible truth before he spoke.

The Developing Horror

I've observed numerous faces through news coverage whose existence were torn apart. Their eyes revealing they hadn't yet processed their loss. Suddenly it was us. The torrent of horror were overwhelming, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My young one looked at me over his laptop. I shifted to make calls separately. By the time we got to our destination, I saw the terrible killing of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the attackers who took over her house.

I thought to myself: "Not one of our friends will survive."

Later, I viewed videos showing fire bursting through our residence. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I denied the house was destroyed – not until my siblings shared with me visual confirmation.

The Consequences

Upon arriving at our destination, I called the puppy provider. "Conflict has erupted," I told them. "My parents may not survive. Our kibbutz fell to by terrorists."

The journey home was spent searching for community members while simultaneously guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that spread across platforms.

The footage from that day exceeded all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son taken by several attackers. My mathematics teacher driven toward Gaza in a vehicle.

People shared social media clips that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend also taken into the territory. My friend's daughter and her little boys – children I had played with – captured by armed terrorists, the horror in her eyes paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It appeared interminable for the military to come our community. Then commenced the painful anticipation for information. Later that afternoon, a single image circulated showing those who made it. My mother and father were not among them.

Over many days, while neighbors worked with authorities identify victims, we combed digital spaces for traces of family members. We encountered atrocities and horrors. There was no footage of my father – no evidence about his final moments.

The Developing Reality

Gradually, the situation emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – as well as dozens more – were abducted from their home. My parent was in his eighties, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, one in four of our neighbors were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my parent emerged from confinement. Prior to leaving, she looked back and grasped the hand of the guard. "Shalom," she uttered. That image – a simple human connection during indescribable tragedy – was shared everywhere.

Five hundred and two days later, Dad's body came back. He was murdered just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign for the captives, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the primary pain.

My family remained peace activists. My mother still is, as are most of my family. We understand that hostility and vengeance cannot bring any comfort from this tragedy.

I write this amid sorrow. Over the months, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The kids of my friends are still captive along with the pressure of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I term dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We typically discussing events to campaign for hostage release, though grieving seems unaffordable we don't have – now, our efforts persists.

No part of this narrative is intended as support for conflict. I have consistently opposed this conflict from day one. The population across the border endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the militants cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Because I know their atrocities during those hours. They abandoned the community – causing pain for all because of their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth among individuals justifying the attackers' actions feels like betraying my dead. My community here confronts unprecedented antisemitism, and our people back home has struggled with the authorities throughout this period while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

From the border, the devastation of the territory is visible and painful. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that many appear to offer to the organizations creates discouragement.