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It started on a morning appearing perfectly normal. I rode together with my loved ones to welcome a furry companion. Life felt secure – until reality shattered.

Checking my device, I saw news from the border. I tried reaching my mum, expecting her cheerful voice explaining everything was fine. No answer. My dad couldn't be reached. Then, my brother answered – his speech already told me the devastating news even as he said anything.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've seen countless individuals in media reports whose lives were torn apart. Their gaze revealing they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The deluge of horror were rising, and the debris was still swirling.

My child watched me over his laptop. I shifted to contact people in private. Once we got to the station, I would witness the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the terrorists who seized her house.

I thought to myself: "Not a single of our loved ones would make it."

Later, I saw footage showing fire consuming our house. Despite this, in the following days, I refused to accept the building was gone – before my brothers shared with me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at the station, I phoned the dog breeder. "Hostilities has started," I said. "My family may not survive. Our kibbutz has been taken over by terrorists."

The return trip was spent searching for community members while also shielding my child from the terrible visuals that circulated across platforms.

The footage from that day were beyond all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son taken by several attackers. My former educator driven toward the border on a golf cart.

People shared social media clips appearing unbelievable. My mother's elderly companion also taken across the border. My friend's daughter and her little boys – kids I recently saw – seized by militants, the horror apparent in her expression devastating.

The Agonizing Delay

It appeared to take forever for assistance to reach the area. Then began the painful anticipation for updates. Later that afternoon, a single image appeared depicting escapees. My parents weren't there.

During the following period, as friends helped forensic teams document losses, we scoured the internet for evidence of those missing. We witnessed brutality and violence. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no clue about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the situation became clearer. My elderly parents – along with 74 others – were taken hostage from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. Amid the terror, a quarter of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum emerged from confinement. Before departing, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of the militant. "Shalom," she spoke. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity during unimaginable horror – was transmitted worldwide.

Over 500 days following, my parent's physical presence were returned. He was murdered just two miles from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These experiences and their documentation remain with me. The two years since – our determined activism to save hostages, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has compounded the original wound.

Both my parents were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, like most of my family. We know that animosity and retaliation don't offer any comfort from the pain.

I share these thoughts through tears. As time passes, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The children belonging to companions remain hostages with the burden of what followed remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I call remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We've become accustomed discussing events to fight for freedom, despite sorrow seems unaffordable we don't have – now, our campaign endures.

No part of this story represents endorsement of violence. I've always been against hostilities from the beginning. The population across the border endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I am horrified by political choices, but I also insist that the attackers shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Having seen their actions that day. They failed their own people – creating pain for all due to their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience with those who defend the violence feels like failing the deceased. The people around me experiences rising hostility, while my community there has campaigned against its government throughout this period while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

From the border, the destruction of the territory is visible and painful. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the moral carte blanche that various individuals appear to offer to the attackers makes me despair.