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It unfolded during that morning looking completely ordinary. I was traveling accompanied by my family to pick up a furry companion. The world appeared secure – then it all shifted.

Checking my device, I discovered reports from the border. I dialed my mother, anticipating her reassuring tone explaining everything was fine. No answer. My father couldn't be reached. Then, my brother answered – his speech immediately revealed the awful reality prior to he spoke.

The Unfolding Tragedy

I've observed numerous faces through news coverage whose existence were torn apart. Their eyes demonstrating they couldn't comprehend their loss. Now it was me. The torrent of tragedy were overwhelming, with the wreckage remained chaotic.

My young one glanced toward me over his laptop. I shifted to make calls in private. When we arrived our destination, I saw the horrific murder of a woman from my past – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the militants who took over her home.

I remember thinking: "Not a single of our family would make it."

Later, I saw footage revealing blazes consuming our family home. Nonetheless, in the following days, I couldn't believe the building was gone – not until my family sent me photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

When we reached our destination, I contacted the kennel owner. "Hostilities has erupted," I told them. "My family are likely gone. My community was captured by terrorists."

The return trip involved trying to contact community members while simultaneously guarding my young one from the horrific images that spread across platforms.

The footage of that day exceeded any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son taken by several attackers. Someone who taught me taken in the direction of the territory in a vehicle.

People shared Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. A senior community member likewise abducted to Gaza. A young mother and her little boys – kids I recently saw – seized by armed terrorists, the fear visible on her face devastating.

The Long Wait

It seemed endless for assistance to reach the area. Then started the terrible uncertainty for news. As time passed, one photograph appeared showing those who made it. My mother and father weren't there.

During the following period, as friends assisted investigators document losses, we combed the internet for signs of those missing. We saw brutality and violence. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Over time, the circumstances grew more distinct. My aged family – together with dozens more – were abducted from the community. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, a quarter of our community members were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother emerged from confinement. Before departing, she looked back and offered a handshake of the militant. "Hello," she uttered. That moment – a simple human connection within indescribable tragedy – was transmitted everywhere.

Over 500 days following, my parent's physical presence were returned. He was killed a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These experiences and their documentation remain with me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the initial trauma.

My mother and father remained advocates for peace. My mother still is, like many relatives. We recognize that animosity and retaliation cannot bring the slightest solace from our suffering.

I compose these words amid sorrow. Over the months, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, not easier. The kids from my community remain hostages and the weight of what followed is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I call remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We typically sharing our story to advocate for the captives, though grieving seems unaffordable we don't have – after 24 months, our campaign continues.

No part of this account represents justification for war. I continuously rejected hostilities since it started. The people of Gaza endured tragedy terribly.

I am horrified by political choices, but I also insist that the organization shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed their actions that day. They failed the population – ensuring pain for all through their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying what happened feels like betraying my dead. The people around me confronts growing prejudice, while my community there has fought with the authorities consistently and been betrayed again and again.

Across the fields, the devastation in Gaza is visible and painful. It horrifies me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that many seem willing to provide to militant groups creates discouragement.