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It unfolded that morning appearing completely ordinary. I journeyed accompanied by my family to pick up our new dog. Everything seemed secure – until everything changed.

Checking my device, I discovered news from the border. I tried reaching my mum, expecting her calm response telling me she was safe. Silence. My dad didn't respond either. Afterward, my brother answered – his tone already told me the terrible truth prior to he said anything.

The Emerging Horror

I've observed so many people on television whose lives were destroyed. Their expressions demonstrating they didn't understand what they'd lost. Now it was me. The floodwaters of tragedy were overwhelming, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My son looked at me from his screen. I relocated to make calls in private. When we got to the station, I would witness the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the militants who took over her house.

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

Later, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes bursting through our residence. Nonetheless, in the following days, I refused to accept the building was gone – until my family shared with me visual confirmation.

The Consequences

Upon arriving at the station, I contacted the dog breeder. "Hostilities has started," I explained. "My parents are probably dead. My community has been taken over by militants."

The return trip involved searching for friends and family and at the same time protecting my son from the terrible visuals that spread through networks.

The images from that day exceeded anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me transported to the territory on a golf cart.

People shared digital recordings appearing unbelievable. My mother's elderly companion also taken to Gaza. A woman I knew with her two small sons – boys I knew well – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the horror visible on her face paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt to take forever for help to arrive our community. Then commenced the agonizing wait for information. In the evening, a single image emerged showing those who made it. My parents were missing.

Over many days, as friends assisted investigators locate the missing, we searched the internet for signs of family members. We encountered atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no evidence about his final moments.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the reality became clearer. My aged family – as well as dozens more – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. In the chaos, one in four of the residents were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my parent emerged from captivity. Before departing, she turned and offered a handshake of the guard. "Hello," she uttered. That moment – an elemental act of humanity within unimaginable horror – was shared worldwide.

Over 500 days later, my father's remains came back. He was killed only kilometers from our home.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. The two years since – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the original wound.

My mother and father remained campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, as are other loved ones. We understand that hostility and vengeance won't provide even momentary relief from this tragedy.

I write this while crying. With each day, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, not easier. The young ones of my friends continue imprisoned with the burden of subsequent events is overwhelming.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I call remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We're used to telling our experience to campaign for freedom, despite sorrow seems unaffordable we don't have – now, our campaign continues.

Nothing of this story is intended as justification for war. I've always been against this conflict from day one. The people across the border experienced pain beyond imagination.

I am horrified by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the militants shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Because I know their atrocities during those hours. They betrayed the population – creating tragedy on both sides through their deadly philosophy.

The Community Split

Telling my truth with those who defend what happened appears as failing the deceased. The people around me faces rising hostility, and our people back home has campaigned against its government throughout this period and been betrayed repeatedly.

Looking over, the destruction of the territory can be seen and visceral. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that various individuals seem to grant to the attackers creates discouragement.