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It unfolded on a morning looking entirely routine. I rode accompanied by my family to collect a furry companion. Everything seemed steady – before reality shattered.

Opening my phone, I noticed reports from the border. I dialed my mother, anticipating her calm response telling me they were secure. No answer. My dad was also silent. Next, my brother answered – his speech already told me the terrible truth before he explained.

The Unfolding Horror

I've observed numerous faces in media reports whose lives were torn apart. Their gaze showing they hadn't yet processed their loss. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of horror were rising, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My child looked at me over his laptop. I relocated to reach out separately. Once we reached the station, I encountered the terrible killing of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the attackers who captured her home.

I recall believing: "None of our friends would make it."

At some point, I witnessed recordings showing fire consuming our residence. Despite this, later on, I refused to accept the building was gone – before my family sent me photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

Getting to our destination, I called the puppy provider. "Hostilities has erupted," I told them. "My mother and father are likely gone. Our neighborhood fell to by terrorists."

The journey home was spent trying to contact loved ones and at the same time guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that circulated everywhere.

The scenes from that day transcended anything we could imagine. A child from our community taken by armed militants. My former educator driven toward Gaza on a golf cart.

Friends sent social media clips that defied reality. A senior community member similarly captured across the border. A young mother accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – captured by armed terrorists, the horror visible on her face devastating.

The Long Wait

It appeared interminable for the military to come our community. Then began the painful anticipation for updates. In the evening, a lone picture circulated showing those who made it. My parents were not among them.

For days and weeks, while neighbors helped forensic teams identify victims, we scoured online platforms for signs of those missing. We saw torture and mutilation. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no clue about his final moments.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the circumstances grew more distinct. My aged family – together with dozens more – were abducted from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. Amid the terror, a quarter of the residents were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my parent emerged from imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of her captor. "Peace," she said. That gesture – a basic human interaction during unspeakable violence – was shared globally.

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

The Continuing Trauma

These events and the visual proof still terrorize me. The two years since – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the primary pain.

Both my parents were lifelong advocates for peace. Mom continues, as are other loved ones. We understand that hostility and vengeance cannot bring even momentary relief from our suffering.

I compose these words through tears. With each day, discussing these events grows harder, rather than simpler. The kids belonging to companions remain hostages with the burden of what followed is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I term focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We typically sharing our story to advocate for the captives, despite sorrow seems unaffordable we lack – after 24 months, our work endures.

Nothing of this story represents justification for war. I've always been against hostilities from day one. The residents in the territory have suffered terribly.

I'm appalled by government decisions, while maintaining that the attackers cannot be considered innocent activists. Having seen their atrocities during those hours. They failed the population – ensuring tragedy on both sides through their deadly philosophy.

The Community Split

Telling my truth with those who defend the violence appears as dishonoring the lost. My local circle confronts rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned against its government throughout this period while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

From the border, the devastation across the frontier appears clearly and emotional. It shocks me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that many seem to grant to the attackers creates discouragement.