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

Checking my device, I noticed news concerning the frontier. I tried reaching my mum, expecting her calm response saying everything was fine. Silence. My father was also silent. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his tone already told me the devastating news even as he explained.

The Unfolding Tragedy

I've observed numerous faces in media reports whose lives were torn apart. Their gaze showing they hadn't yet processed their loss. Now it was me. The floodwaters of violence were rising, amid the destruction was still swirling.

My child watched me over his laptop. I moved to reach out separately. Once we got to the station, I would witness the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the attackers who seized her house.

I thought to myself: "None of our friends would make it."

Eventually, I viewed videos depicting flames consuming our residence. Even then, in the following days, I couldn't believe the home had burned – until my brothers provided photographs and evidence.

The Fallout

When we reached the city, I called the kennel owner. "Conflict has erupted," I explained. "My mother and father may not survive. Our kibbutz has been taken over by attackers."

The ride back consisted of attempting to reach community members while also protecting my son from the horrific images that were emerging across platforms.

The scenes during those hours transcended any possible expectation. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by armed militants. My former educator transported to the territory in a vehicle.

People shared digital recordings that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted across the border. A woman I knew accompanied by her children – children I had played with – being rounded up by attackers, the terror apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It seemed to take forever for the military to come the area. Then started the terrible uncertainty for updates. Later that afternoon, one photograph circulated depicting escapees. My mother and father weren't there.

Over many days, as friends assisted investigators identify victims, we searched digital spaces for evidence of our loved ones. We encountered brutality and violence. We didn't discover footage of my father – no indication regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the circumstances emerged more fully. My aged family – along with 74 others – were abducted from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. In the chaos, a quarter of our community members were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mum emerged from captivity. Prior to leaving, she turned and offered a handshake of the guard. "Hello," she spoke. That image – a basic human interaction during unimaginable horror – was transmitted globally.

Five hundred and two days following, Dad's body were recovered. He was killed a short distance from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These experiences and the visual proof continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the initial trauma.

My mother and father had always been campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, as are other loved ones. We understand that hostility and vengeance won't provide any comfort from this tragedy.

I write this through tears. Over the months, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, rather than simpler. The young ones of my friends are still captive with the burden of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I describe dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We typically sharing our story to fight for freedom, despite sorrow feels like privilege we cannot afford – and two years later, our efforts persists.

Not one word of this story is intended as justification for war. I've always been against hostilities from the beginning. The population in the territory endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I am horrified by leadership actions, but I also insist that the organization shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Having seen their atrocities that day. They abandoned their own people – causing tragedy on both sides due to their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth with those who defend the violence appears as betraying my dead. The people around me confronts rising hostility, and our people back home has fought with the authorities throughout this period facing repeated disappointment again and again.

Across the fields, the ruin in Gaza appears clearly and visceral. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that many appear to offer to the organizations creates discouragement.