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It began during that morning that seemed entirely routine. I rode accompanied by my family to pick up a new puppy. Life felt steady – then everything changed.

Opening my phone, I noticed reports from the border. I tried reaching my mum, anticipating her reassuring tone saying she was safe. No answer. My parent couldn't be reached. Afterward, I reached my brother – his voice already told me the devastating news even as he spoke.

The Developing Horror

I've observed numerous faces through news coverage whose worlds were destroyed. Their expressions revealing they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Now it was me. The floodwaters of horror were overwhelming, and the debris remained chaotic.

My young one looked at me from his screen. I relocated to make calls separately. When we reached our destination, I saw the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the militants who took over her residence.

I remember thinking: "None of our family would make it."

At some point, I saw footage showing fire erupting from our house. Nonetheless, later on, I couldn't believe the home had burned – before my brothers sent me images and proof.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at the city, I contacted the kennel owner. "Conflict has erupted," I explained. "My family are probably dead. Our neighborhood was captured by attackers."

The ride back consisted of searching for community members while simultaneously protecting my son from the terrible visuals that circulated through networks.

The images from that day were beyond any possible expectation. A child from our community taken by armed militants. My former educator transported to Gaza using transportation.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. A senior community member likewise abducted to Gaza. A woman I knew with her two small sons – boys I knew well – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the terror apparent in her expression stunning.

The Long Wait

It felt interminable for help to arrive the area. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for updates. In the evening, one photograph appeared depicting escapees. My family weren't there.

For days and weeks, as community members assisted investigators identify victims, we combed the internet for evidence of family members. We saw brutality and violence. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the situation emerged more fully. My aged family – along with numerous community members – became captives from their home. My father was 83, my mother 85. In the chaos, 25 percent of the residents were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mother was released from confinement. As she left, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of the guard. "Hello," she said. That moment – an elemental act of humanity during indescribable tragedy – was broadcast globally.

Five hundred and two days afterward, my parent's physical presence were recovered. He died only kilometers from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and their documentation remain with me. The two years since – our determined activism to save hostages, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has intensified the original wound.

Both my parents were lifelong peace activists. My mother still is, similar to many relatives. We recognize that hostility and vengeance cannot bring even momentary relief from the pain.

I write this through tears. With each day, discussing these events grows harder, rather than simpler. The kids belonging to companions remain hostages and the weight of what followed is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I call remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We typically telling our experience to fight for freedom, while mourning feels like privilege we cannot afford – now, our campaign continues.

Not one word of this story is intended as support for conflict. I've always been against the fighting since it started. The population of Gaza endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the militants shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Having seen what they did that day. They betrayed their own people – ensuring suffering for everyone because of their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience with those who defend what happened seems like failing the deceased. My local circle faces rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought versus leadership for two years while experiencing betrayal again and again.

From the border, the ruin in Gaza appears clearly and painful. It shocks me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that various individuals seem willing to provide to the attackers causes hopelessness.