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It unfolded that morning looking entirely routine. I rode together with my loved ones to pick up a furry companion. Everything seemed steady – before reality shattered.

Checking my device, I noticed news about the border region. I called my parent, hoping for her reassuring tone explaining she was safe. Nothing. My parent was also silent. Next, my brother answered – his tone immediately revealed the terrible truth before he said anything.

The Developing Horror

I've observed numerous faces in media reports whose worlds had collapsed. Their eyes demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Now it was me. The torrent of violence were building, and the debris hadn't settled.

My child glanced toward me across the seat. I shifted to reach out alone. By the time we got to the station, I saw the brutal execution of a woman from my past – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the militants who captured her house.

I remember thinking: "Not a single of our friends could live through this."

Later, I viewed videos revealing blazes consuming our house. Despite this, for days afterward, I refused to accept the home had burned – before my brothers provided visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at the city, I called the kennel owner. "Conflict has started," I told them. "My parents may not survive. My community fell to by militants."

The ride back involved searching for friends and family and at the same time protecting my son from the horrific images that were emerging through networks.

The footage during those hours exceeded any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son seized by several attackers. My mathematics teacher driven toward Gaza in a vehicle.

Friends sent social media clips that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion also taken into the territory. A woman I knew with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – captured by attackers, the terror visible on her face paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It appeared interminable for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then commenced the agonizing wait for news. As time passed, one photograph emerged showing those who made it. My family weren't there.

Over many days, while neighbors helped forensic teams locate the missing, we scoured digital spaces for signs of our loved ones. We saw torture and mutilation. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the situation grew more distinct. My elderly parents – as well as 74 others – became captives from their home. My father was 83, my mother 85. During the violence, 25 percent of our neighbors were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my mother emerged from confinement. As she left, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of the militant. "Hello," she uttered. That image – a basic human interaction during indescribable tragedy – was broadcast globally.

Five hundred and two days afterward, Dad's body came back. He was murdered just two miles from our home.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign for the captives, Dad's terrible fate, the ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the primary pain.

Both my parents were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, like most of my family. We understand that animosity and retaliation don't offer any comfort from the pain.

I compose these words amid sorrow. As time passes, talking about what happened grows harder, rather than simpler. The young ones belonging to companions continue imprisoned with the burden of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I term dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We typically discussing events to campaign for the captives, though grieving seems unaffordable we don't have – now, our efforts endures.

No part of this account represents endorsement of violence. I've always been against the fighting from day one. The population of Gaza have suffered unimaginably.

I'm shocked by leadership actions, but I also insist that the organization shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Having seen what they did during those hours. They betrayed their own people – causing pain for all through their violent beliefs.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth with those who defend the attackers' actions feels like failing the deceased. My community here experiences rising hostility, and our people back home has struggled with the authorities throughout this period while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

Across the fields, the devastation across the frontier can be seen and emotional. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the moral carte blanche that various individuals appear to offer to militant groups creates discouragement.