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It unfolded that morning that seemed perfectly normal. I rode accompanied by my family to collect a furry companion. Everything seemed predictable – before reality shattered.

Checking my device, I noticed reports about the border region. I called my mother, hoping for her calm response explaining she was safe. Silence. My dad was also silent. Next, I reached my brother – his speech already told me the terrible truth even as he spoke.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've witnessed so many people on television whose worlds were torn apart. Their expressions showing they didn't understand their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The torrent of tragedy were rising, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My son looked at me over his laptop. I shifted to contact people alone. Once we arrived the city, I would witness the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the attackers who captured her house.

I thought to myself: "Not one of our family would make it."

At some point, I saw footage revealing blazes bursting through our family home. Nonetheless, in the following days, I denied the building was gone – not until my siblings provided images and proof.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at our destination, I phoned the puppy provider. "Hostilities has erupted," I said. "My family are likely gone. Our neighborhood has been taken over by terrorists."

The return trip consisted of searching for loved ones while simultaneously guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that circulated across platforms.

The images of that day exceeded any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son taken by multiple terrorists. My former educator driven toward Gaza using transportation.

People shared digital recordings that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion likewise abducted to Gaza. A woman I knew with her two small sons – boys I knew well – seized by armed terrorists, the terror in her eyes stunning.

The Painful Period

It seemed endless for help to arrive our community. Then began the agonizing wait for updates. Later that afternoon, one photograph appeared depicting escapees. My family were not among them.

Over many days, as friends worked with authorities locate the missing, we searched digital spaces for evidence of those missing. We witnessed brutality and violence. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no indication regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Over time, the reality emerged more fully. My elderly parents – as well as 74 others – became captives from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, my mother 85. During the violence, a quarter of our community members were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my parent emerged from confinement. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and shook hands of her captor. "Hello," she said. That gesture – a basic human interaction amid indescribable tragedy – was broadcast worldwide.

More than sixteen months afterward, my father's remains came back. He died a short distance from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and the visual proof remain with me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts for the captives, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the primary pain.

My family were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, like many relatives. We recognize that hostility and vengeance cannot bring even momentary relief from this tragedy.

I write this through tears. As time passes, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The kids from my community remain hostages with the burden of what followed remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I describe remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We typically discussing events to fight for the captives, while mourning seems unaffordable we cannot afford – after 24 months, our campaign continues.

Nothing of this narrative serves as endorsement of violence. I've always been against this conflict since it started. The population of Gaza have suffered unimaginably.

I'm shocked by political choices, while maintaining that the organization cannot be considered innocent activists. Because I know their atrocities on October 7th. They abandoned the population – causing pain for all through their violent beliefs.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth among individuals justifying what happened appears as betraying my dead. The people around me faces rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought versus leadership throughout this period and been betrayed repeatedly.

From the border, the ruin across the frontier appears clearly and visceral. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that various individuals seem willing to provide to the attackers makes me despair.