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It began that morning appearing completely ordinary. I was traveling together with my loved ones to welcome our new dog. Life felt predictable – until it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered news from the border. I tried reaching my mum, anticipating her reassuring tone saying she was safe. No answer. My parent didn't respond either. Afterward, I reached my brother – his voice immediately revealed the terrible truth even as he said anything.

The Developing Horror

I've seen numerous faces through news coverage whose worlds had collapsed. Their eyes revealing they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of tragedy were rising, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My child glanced toward me across the seat. I moved to contact people in private. When we got to our destination, I encountered the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the attackers who seized her home.

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

At some point, I viewed videos depicting flames consuming our family home. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – not until my siblings provided visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at the station, I called the puppy provider. "Hostilities has begun," I told them. "My parents may not survive. Our neighborhood fell to by attackers."

The return trip was spent attempting to reach friends and family and at the same time shielding my child from the awful footage that were emerging across platforms.

The images from that day exceeded any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son taken by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher driven toward Gaza on a golf cart.

People shared Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured across the border. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – boys I knew well – captured by militants, the fear in her eyes devastating.

The Painful Period

It appeared endless for help to arrive our community. Then commenced the agonizing wait for news. Later that afternoon, a single image appeared depicting escapees. My parents were not among them.

Over many days, as friends worked with authorities document losses, we scoured online platforms for evidence of family members. We witnessed brutality and violence. We never found recordings showing my parent – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the circumstances emerged more fully. My aged family – as well as 74 others – became captives from the community. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, a quarter of our neighbors were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my parent was released from imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of her captor. "Peace," she spoke. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity amid unspeakable violence – was shared everywhere.

Five hundred and two days following, my father's remains came back. He died just two miles from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These experiences and their documentation still terrorize me. Everything that followed – our determined activism to save hostages, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has compounded the original wound.

My mother and father were lifelong advocates for peace. My parent remains, like most of my family. We recognize that hostility and vengeance cannot bring any comfort from this tragedy.

I compose these words through tears. Over the months, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The children belonging to companions are still captive with the burden of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I term focusing on the trauma "immersed in suffering". We've become accustomed sharing our story to advocate for the captives, though grieving seems unaffordable we don't have – and two years later, our campaign persists.

No part of this narrative is intended as justification for war. I've always been against hostilities since it started. The population of Gaza experienced pain unimaginably.

I'm appalled by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the militants shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed their atrocities that day. They abandoned their own people – creating suffering for everyone due to their violent beliefs.

The Social Divide

Discussing my experience with people supporting what happened seems like dishonoring the lost. The people around me confronts growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned with the authorities throughout this period while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

Looking over, the devastation of the territory is visible and painful. It horrifies me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that numerous people appear to offer to the attackers makes me despair.