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It began during that morning looking entirely routine. I rode together with my loved ones to welcome a furry companion. The world appeared predictable – until everything changed.

Checking my device, I saw news from the border. I dialed my parent, hoping for her cheerful voice explaining they were secure. Silence. My dad couldn't be reached. Then, my brother answered – his tone already told me the terrible truth even as he explained.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've seen so many people through news coverage whose existence had collapsed. Their gaze demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The torrent of violence were rising, amid the destruction was still swirling.

My child watched me from his screen. I moved to reach out separately. When we got to our destination, I saw the terrible killing of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the terrorists who captured her house.

I thought to myself: "Not one of our friends could live through this."

Eventually, I saw footage depicting flames consuming our residence. Even then, in the following days, I refused to accept the home had burned – before my family sent me images and proof.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at the city, I phoned the puppy provider. "Hostilities has started," I told them. "My family are likely gone. Our neighborhood fell to by attackers."

The return trip consisted of searching for friends and family while also protecting my son from the horrific images that circulated across platforms.

The footage of that day transcended all comprehension. A child from our community captured by armed militants. My former educator transported to Gaza using transportation.

Friends sent digital recordings appearing unbelievable. My mother's elderly companion likewise abducted to Gaza. A young mother accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – captured by armed terrorists, the terror apparent in her expression devastating.

The Agonizing Delay

It appeared to take forever for help to arrive the area. Then commenced the painful anticipation for information. As time passed, a single image circulated of survivors. My mother and father were not among them.

During the following period, while neighbors worked with authorities locate the missing, we searched online platforms for signs of those missing. We witnessed torture and mutilation. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no evidence about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Over time, the situation became clearer. My aged family – along with dozens more – became captives from the community. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. During the violence, 25 percent of our neighbors were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother left imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she turned and offered a handshake of the guard. "Shalom," she spoke. That image – a basic human interaction within unspeakable violence – was transmitted worldwide.

Five hundred and two days later, my father's remains were recovered. He was murdered just two miles from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. The two years since – our desperate campaign to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the destruction across the border – has worsened the initial trauma.

My mother and father were lifelong advocates for peace. My mother still is, like most of my family. We understand that animosity and retaliation don't offer any comfort from this tragedy.

I write this through tears. As time passes, discussing these events becomes more difficult, rather than simpler. The kids from my community are still captive along with the pressure of what followed remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I term remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We're used to sharing our story to fight for hostage release, despite sorrow feels like privilege we cannot afford – now, our work persists.

Nothing of this account represents endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed hostilities from day one. The people of Gaza have suffered terribly.

I'm appalled by political choices, while maintaining that the militants are not peaceful protesters. Because I know what they did on October 7th. They abandoned the community – ensuring pain for all due to their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience with people supporting the attackers' actions feels like dishonoring the lost. My community here confronts rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought versus leadership for two years and been betrayed again and again.

Across the fields, the devastation across the frontier appears clearly and painful. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that numerous people appear to offer to the organizations causes hopelessness.