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It unfolded on a morning that seemed entirely routine. I journeyed with my husband and son to pick up a furry companion. The world appeared secure – until everything changed.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered news about the border region. I tried reaching my mother, expecting her cheerful voice explaining they were secure. Silence. My father couldn't be reached. Next, my brother answered – his speech immediately revealed the terrible truth before he explained.

The Developing Tragedy

I've observed countless individuals in media reports whose worlds were destroyed. Their gaze revealing they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The torrent of tragedy were rising, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My son looked at me across the seat. I relocated to contact people in private. Once we reached the station, I saw the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the attackers who captured her house.

I thought to myself: "None of our family could live through this."

At some point, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes erupting from our house. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I denied the house was destroyed – until my siblings sent me visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

Getting to the station, I phoned the kennel owner. "A war has started," I explained. "My family are likely gone. Our neighborhood fell to by attackers."

The return trip involved attempting to reach community members and at the same time protecting my son from the awful footage that were emerging through networks.

The footage during those hours transcended all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by armed militants. My former educator taken in the direction of the border on a golf cart.

People shared social media clips that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured across the border. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – captured by militants, the horror apparent in her expression devastating.

The Long Wait

It felt to take forever for the military to come our community. Then started the terrible uncertainty for news. In the evening, a lone picture circulated showing those who made it. My family were not among them.

During the following period, as community members assisted investigators document losses, we searched online platforms for evidence of family members. We witnessed torture and mutilation. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no evidence about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Over time, the reality grew more distinct. My elderly parents – along with dozens more – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. My father was 83, Mom was 85. In the chaos, 25 percent of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother was released from confinement. Prior to leaving, she turned and shook hands of her captor. "Peace," she uttered. That gesture – a simple human connection during unspeakable violence – was transmitted worldwide.

Five hundred and two days following, my parent's physical presence were recovered. He was murdered just two miles from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the original wound.

Both my parents remained advocates for peace. My mother still is, as are most of my family. We recognize that animosity and retaliation don't offer the slightest solace from our suffering.

I write this while crying. As time passes, sharing the experience grows harder, instead of improving. The children of my friends remain hostages and the weight of what followed remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I call dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We're used to telling our experience to fight for freedom, though grieving remains a luxury we lack – now, our efforts continues.

No part of this narrative is intended as support for conflict. I've always been against the fighting since it started. The residents of Gaza endured tragedy unimaginably.

I'm appalled by political choices, while maintaining that the militants are not benign resistance fighters. Because I know their atrocities that day. They failed their own people – ensuring tragedy on both sides because of their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story among individuals justifying what happened appears as failing the deceased. My local circle confronts unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought against its government consistently and been betrayed multiple times.

Across the fields, the destruction across the frontier appears clearly and visceral. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that numerous people appear to offer to militant groups creates discouragement.