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It began during that morning looking entirely routine. I journeyed accompanied by my family to collect our new dog. Life felt steady – until reality shattered.

Checking my device, I noticed news about the border region. I dialed my mum, anticipating her cheerful voice saying they were secure. Silence. My dad didn't respond either. Then, my brother answered – his voice instantly communicated the terrible truth even as he explained.

The Developing Nightmare

I've witnessed countless individuals on television whose lives were destroyed. Their gaze revealing they didn't understand their tragedy. Now it was me. The floodwaters of violence were rising, with the wreckage was still swirling.

My young one watched me across the seat. I shifted to reach out separately. Once we arrived our destination, I encountered the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the terrorists who seized her house.

I thought to myself: "None of our loved ones will survive."

At some point, I saw footage depicting flames bursting through our residence. Despite this, in the following days, I refused to accept the home had burned – until my brothers sent me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at the station, I phoned the puppy provider. "A war has begun," I told them. "My mother and father are probably dead. Our kibbutz has been taken over by terrorists."

The ride back involved trying to contact friends and family and at the same time protecting my son from the awful footage that were emerging across platforms.

The footage from that day exceeded any possible expectation. A child from our community seized by several attackers. Someone who taught me taken in the direction of the territory in a vehicle.

Friends sent social media clips that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted across the border. A young mother with her two small sons – boys I knew well – captured by attackers, the fear apparent in her expression devastating.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt endless for assistance to reach our community. Then began the terrible uncertainty for news. As time passed, a lone picture circulated of survivors. My parents weren't there.

For days and weeks, while neighbors worked with authorities locate the missing, we combed online platforms for signs of family members. We saw torture and mutilation. We never found recordings showing my parent – no evidence about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the situation became clearer. My elderly parents – together with 74 others – were taken hostage from their home. My parent was in his eighties, my other parent was elderly. During the violence, 25 percent of the residents lost their lives or freedom.

Seventeen days later, my parent was released from imprisonment. Before departing, she looked back and grasped the hand of the guard. "Peace," she uttered. That moment – an elemental act of humanity within unimaginable horror – was shared globally.

Over 500 days following, my parent's physical presence were recovered. He was killed just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and their documentation remain with me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the initial trauma.

My mother and father remained campaigners for reconciliation. My parent remains, like other loved ones. We recognize that hostility and vengeance don't offer even momentary relief from the pain.

I write this amid sorrow. With each day, sharing the experience grows harder, rather than simpler. The kids belonging to companions continue imprisoned along with the pressure of what followed is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I describe focusing on the trauma "immersed in suffering". We're used to sharing our story to fight for the captives, though grieving feels like privilege we lack – now, our efforts continues.

No part of this account is intended as endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected this conflict since it started. The people across the border experienced pain terribly.

I'm appalled by political choices, yet emphasizing that the organization are not benign resistance fighters. Having seen their atrocities that day. They abandoned the community – creating suffering for everyone because of their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Discussing my experience with people supporting the violence feels like dishonoring the lost. My community here experiences unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought versus leadership for two years while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

Across the fields, the devastation in Gaza appears clearly and visceral. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that numerous people appear to offer to the attackers causes hopelessness.