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It unfolded on a morning that seemed completely ordinary. I rode together with my loved ones to welcome a new puppy. The world appeared secure – then it all shifted.

Checking my device, I saw news from the border. I called my parent, hoping for her cheerful voice telling me she was safe. Silence. My dad didn't respond either. Then, my brother answered – his tone instantly communicated the devastating news prior to he said anything.

The Developing Nightmare

I've witnessed so many people on television whose lives had collapsed. Their gaze demonstrating they didn't understand their tragedy. Now it was me. The torrent of tragedy were overwhelming, and the debris hadn't settled.

My child looked at me across the seat. I shifted to reach out in private. Once we reached the station, I saw the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the militants who seized her home.

I recall believing: "Not a single of our loved ones could live through this."

Later, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes bursting through our house. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I refused to accept the building was gone – until my siblings sent me images and proof.

The Consequences

When we reached the city, I called the puppy provider. "Hostilities has begun," I told them. "My family may not survive. Our kibbutz was captured by terrorists."

The ride back involved trying to contact community members while simultaneously protecting my son from the horrific images that spread through networks.

The scenes during those hours exceeded anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son taken by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me driven toward the territory in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated digital recordings that defied reality. A senior community member similarly captured into the territory. A woman I knew and her little boys – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the horror apparent in her expression stunning.

The Painful Period

It seemed endless for the military to come the area. Then commenced the agonizing wait for information. As time passed, a lone picture circulated of survivors. My mother and father were not among them.

During the following period, as friends worked with authorities document losses, we scoured online platforms for traces of those missing. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. There was no footage of my father – no indication about his final moments.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the situation became clearer. My aged family – together with dozens more – became captives from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, one in four of our neighbors were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother left confinement. Before departing, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of her captor. "Peace," she spoke. That moment – a simple human connection amid indescribable tragedy – was shared globally.

Over 500 days following, my father's remains were recovered. He died a short distance from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These experiences and the recorded evidence remain with me. The two years since – our desperate campaign for the captives, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the original wound.

Both my parents were lifelong advocates for peace. Mom continues, similar to many relatives. We know that hostility and vengeance don't offer the slightest solace from this tragedy.

I write this while crying. As time passes, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, not easier. The kids belonging to companions are still captive with the burden of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I describe remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We typically telling our experience to fight for hostage release, despite sorrow feels like privilege we lack – now, our campaign persists.

Nothing of this story represents justification for war. I've always been against the fighting from the beginning. The population of Gaza endured tragedy terribly.

I am horrified by political choices, yet emphasizing that the organization shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Because I know their atrocities that day. They abandoned the community – causing suffering for everyone because of their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Sharing my story among individuals justifying what happened feels like dishonoring the lost. My community here experiences rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled against its government consistently while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

From the border, the devastation of the territory appears clearly and emotional. It appalls me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that numerous people seem willing to provide to the organizations creates discouragement.