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It started that morning looking perfectly normal. I was traveling together with my loved ones to collect a furry companion. Life felt predictable – until reality shattered.

Checking my device, I saw updates concerning the frontier. I tried reaching my mum, anticipating her calm response telling me she was safe. No answer. My parent couldn't be reached. Next, my brother answered – his speech instantly communicated the awful reality prior to he said anything.

The Developing Horror

I've observed numerous faces in media reports whose lives were destroyed. Their eyes showing they didn't understand their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The deluge of violence were overwhelming, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My child watched me across the seat. I shifted to reach out separately. When we got to the station, I saw the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the attackers who seized her house.

I remember thinking: "Not one of our loved ones would make it."

Eventually, I viewed videos revealing blazes erupting from our house. Despite this, later on, I couldn't believe the home had burned – until my family provided visual confirmation.

The Fallout

When we reached our destination, I phoned the puppy provider. "Hostilities has erupted," I told them. "My parents are likely gone. Our kibbutz has been taken over by militants."

The ride back involved attempting to reach friends and family and at the same time protecting my son from the terrible visuals that spread everywhere.

The images from that day exceeded all comprehension. A child from our community taken by several attackers. My former educator transported to the territory using transportation.

Friends sent social media clips that seemed impossible. A senior community member likewise abducted into the territory. A young mother with her two small sons – boys I knew well – seized by militants, the fear apparent in her expression stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It appeared endless for the military to come our community. Then began the agonizing wait for information. Later that afternoon, a lone picture circulated depicting escapees. My parents were not among them.

During the following period, as friends helped forensic teams identify victims, we searched digital spaces for traces of our loved ones. We saw torture and mutilation. We never found recordings showing my parent – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Emerging Picture

Over time, the situation emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – together with dozens more – were taken hostage from the community. My father was 83, Mom was 85. During the violence, one in four of our community members were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my parent emerged from confinement. Prior to leaving, she looked back and shook hands of her captor. "Hello," she said. That moment – a basic human interaction during unspeakable violence – was broadcast globally.

More than sixteen months afterward, Dad's body came back. He was murdered just two miles from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the recorded evidence remain with me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the devastation in Gaza – has compounded the original wound.

My family remained peace activists. My mother still is, as are many relatives. We know that hate and revenge don't offer even momentary relief from the pain.

I compose these words while crying. As time passes, sharing the experience grows harder, rather than simpler. The kids from my community are still captive and the weight of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I term dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We typically discussing events to campaign for the captives, though grieving feels like privilege we don't have – after 24 months, our efforts endures.

No part of this account serves as justification for war. I continuously rejected the fighting from day one. The residents in the territory experienced pain terribly.

I'm appalled by leadership actions, but I also insist that the militants are not benign resistance fighters. Because I know their actions that day. They betrayed the community – causing suffering for everyone due to their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story with people supporting the attackers' actions appears as dishonoring the lost. The people around me experiences rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled versus leadership consistently facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

Looking over, the devastation across the frontier appears clearly and visceral. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the moral carte blanche that many seem willing to provide to militant groups makes me despair.