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It began during that morning looking completely ordinary. I rode together with my loved ones to pick up our new dog. Everything seemed secure – until everything changed.

Glancing at my screen, I saw updates from the border. I tried reaching my mother, hoping for her calm response explaining everything was fine. Silence. My father couldn't be reached. Then, my brother answered – his tone immediately revealed the awful reality prior to he explained.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've witnessed so many people in media reports whose existence were destroyed. Their gaze showing they didn't understand what they'd lost. Now it was me. The floodwaters of violence were building, amid the destruction was still swirling.

My son glanced toward me across the seat. I moved to reach out alone. When we reached the city, I saw the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the terrorists who captured her home.

I thought to myself: "None of our friends would make it."

At some point, I saw footage revealing blazes bursting through our residence. Even then, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – not until my brothers shared with me photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at the station, I called the dog breeder. "Hostilities has erupted," I told them. "My mother and father may not survive. Our neighborhood was captured by militants."

The ride back was spent trying to contact loved ones and at the same time shielding my child from the terrible visuals that spread everywhere.

The scenes during those hours transcended anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son seized by multiple terrorists. My former educator transported to Gaza using transportation.

Friends sent digital recordings that defied reality. A senior community member also taken into the territory. A woman I knew accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – captured by armed terrorists, the horror in her eyes paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt to take forever for assistance to reach the area. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for information. In the evening, a lone picture circulated of survivors. My parents were missing.

During the following period, while neighbors assisted investigators identify victims, we combed online platforms for signs of our loved ones. We encountered brutality and violence. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Emerging Picture

Over time, the situation emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – together with numerous community members – became captives from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, a quarter of the residents lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum was released from imprisonment. Before departing, she glanced behind and shook hands of her captor. "Shalom," she spoke. That image – a simple human connection amid unspeakable violence – was broadcast worldwide.

More than sixteen months afterward, my father's remains came back. He was killed a short distance from our home.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and the visual proof remain with me. The two years since – our desperate campaign for the captives, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the destruction across the border – has compounded the initial trauma.

Both my parents were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. My parent remains, similar to other loved ones. We know that hate and revenge cannot bring the slightest solace from our suffering.

I compose these words through tears. With each day, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, not easier. The young ones from my community are still captive along with the pressure of what followed is overwhelming.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I term focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We're used to sharing our story to advocate for freedom, despite sorrow seems unaffordable we cannot afford – and two years later, our campaign endures.

Nothing of this story is intended as support for conflict. I have consistently opposed this conflict since it started. The residents of Gaza have suffered beyond imagination.

I am horrified by government decisions, while maintaining that the organization are not benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed their actions that day. They failed the population – causing pain for all because of their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience with those who defend the attackers' actions appears as failing the deceased. The people around me faces rising hostility, and our people back home has struggled versus leadership consistently while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

Looking over, the ruin across the frontier is visible and emotional. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that many seem willing to provide to the attackers creates discouragement.