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It started on a morning that seemed completely ordinary. I rode together with my loved ones to collect a furry companion. Life felt predictable – before it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered updates concerning the frontier. I tried reaching my mother, anticipating her calm response telling me everything was fine. No answer. My father was also silent. Next, my sibling picked up – his tone immediately revealed the awful reality even as he spoke.

The Unfolding Tragedy

I've witnessed numerous faces through news coverage whose lives had collapsed. Their expressions showing they hadn't yet processed their loss. Now it was me. The deluge of violence were building, and the debris remained chaotic.

My son watched me over his laptop. I moved to contact people alone. By the time we arrived the city, I saw the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the militants who took over her residence.

I thought to myself: "Not a single of our friends will survive."

Later, I saw footage revealing blazes consuming our residence. Nonetheless, later on, I couldn't believe the home had burned – not until my family shared with me photographs and evidence.

The Fallout

Getting to the city, I phoned the kennel owner. "Hostilities has begun," I said. "My parents are likely gone. Our kibbutz fell to by attackers."

The journey home involved searching for friends and family and at the same time protecting my son from the terrible visuals that were emerging across platforms.

The scenes during those hours were beyond all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by several attackers. Someone who taught me driven toward the territory using transportation.

Individuals circulated digital recordings that seemed impossible. A senior community member likewise abducted to Gaza. A young mother and her little boys – children I had played with – seized by attackers, the fear apparent in her expression stunning.

The Painful Period

It appeared endless for assistance to reach our community. Then began the terrible uncertainty for information. In the evening, a single image appeared showing those who made it. My parents were not among them.

During the following period, as friends assisted investigators locate the missing, we scoured the internet for evidence of family members. We witnessed torture and mutilation. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the situation became clearer. My aged family – as well as 74 others – became captives from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. During the violence, one in four of our neighbors were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my mum left imprisonment. As she left, she looked back and offered a handshake of the guard. "Hello," she uttered. That gesture – a simple human connection amid indescribable tragedy – was shared everywhere.

More than sixteen months afterward, my parent's physical presence came back. He was murdered only kilometers from our home.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and the visual proof continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign for the captives, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the destruction across the border – has compounded the initial trauma.

My mother and father were lifelong advocates for peace. Mom continues, as are other loved ones. We understand that animosity and retaliation don't offer any comfort from this tragedy.

I compose these words while crying. With each day, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The children belonging to companions continue imprisoned along with the pressure of what followed feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I term focusing on the trauma "immersed in suffering". We typically sharing our story to campaign for hostage release, despite sorrow remains a luxury we cannot afford – now, our efforts persists.

Not one word of this narrative is intended as justification for war. I continuously rejected this conflict since it started. The population across the border experienced pain unimaginably.

I am horrified by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the attackers are not benign resistance fighters. Because I know what they did on October 7th. They failed the community – causing pain for all due to their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth among individuals justifying the violence seems like dishonoring the lost. My local circle confronts rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned against its government throughout this period and been betrayed multiple times.

Looking over, the destruction of the territory can be seen and emotional. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that numerous people seem willing to provide to the organizations causes hopelessness.