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It unfolded that morning that seemed perfectly normal. I was traveling together with my loved ones to pick up a new puppy. Everything seemed predictable – before reality shattered.

Checking my device, I discovered reports about the border region. I called my mother, hoping for her reassuring tone explaining they were secure. Nothing. My parent didn't respond either. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his tone immediately revealed the terrible truth even as he spoke.

The Unfolding Tragedy

I've witnessed numerous faces on television whose worlds were torn apart. Their gaze showing they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of tragedy were building, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My son looked at me across the seat. I moved to reach out in private. Once we reached the station, I would witness the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – a senior citizen – shown in real-time by the terrorists who took over her house.

I thought to myself: "Not a single of our family could live through this."

At some point, I viewed videos revealing blazes consuming our house. Despite this, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the home had burned – not until my family provided images and proof.

The Fallout

When we reached the city, I called the kennel owner. "Hostilities has started," I said. "My parents are likely gone. My community has been taken over by terrorists."

The ride back involved trying to contact community members while also protecting my son from the awful footage that circulated across platforms.

The footage during those hours were beyond all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by several attackers. My mathematics teacher transported to the territory using transportation.

People shared social media clips that seemed impossible. A senior community member similarly captured to Gaza. A young mother with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – seized by militants, the horror apparent in her expression stunning.

The Painful Period

It appeared endless for assistance to reach the area. Then started the agonizing wait for updates. Later that afternoon, one photograph appeared of survivors. My family were not among them.

Over many days, as friends helped forensic teams document losses, we scoured digital spaces for signs of those missing. We witnessed brutality and violence. We didn't discover footage of my father – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Emerging Picture

Over time, the circumstances emerged more fully. My aged family – together with numerous community members – became captives from their home. My father was 83, my mother 85. Amid the terror, one in four of our community members were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent left imprisonment. Before departing, she turned and grasped the hand of the guard. "Hello," she said. That gesture – a basic human interaction within indescribable tragedy – was transmitted globally.

Five hundred and two days afterward, my father's remains were returned. He was killed a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and the visual proof still terrorize me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the destruction across the border – has intensified the original wound.

Both my parents had always been advocates for peace. Mom continues, similar to other loved ones. We recognize that hostility and vengeance won't provide the slightest solace from our suffering.

I compose these words amid sorrow. With each day, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The young ones of my friends continue imprisoned and the weight of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I term focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We're used to sharing our story to advocate for freedom, though grieving seems unaffordable we lack – and two years later, our work continues.

Nothing of this account represents justification for war. I have consistently opposed the fighting since it started. The population in the territory endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I am horrified by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the militants cannot be considered innocent activists. Because I know their atrocities during those hours. They betrayed the community – ensuring suffering for everyone because of their violent beliefs.

The Social Divide

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying what happened feels like dishonoring the lost. My community here experiences growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned with the authorities throughout this period facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

Across the fields, the destruction in Gaza is visible and painful. It shocks me. At the same time, the complete justification that many seem willing to provide to militant groups creates discouragement.