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It began during that morning appearing entirely routine. I rode accompanied by my family to collect a furry companion. Life felt steady – before it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I saw news concerning the frontier. I dialed my parent, expecting her reassuring tone telling me she was safe. Nothing. My dad didn't respond either. Then, my brother answered – his voice immediately revealed the awful reality prior to he explained.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've seen numerous faces in media reports whose lives were torn apart. Their expressions demonstrating they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Now it was me. The deluge of violence were rising, and the debris hadn't settled.

My child glanced toward me from his screen. I relocated to make calls in private. By the time we reached our destination, I saw the brutal execution of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the militants who took over her home.

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

At some point, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes bursting through our family home. Even then, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the building was gone – not until my family sent me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

When we reached the city, I contacted the dog breeder. "Hostilities has started," I said. "My mother and father are likely gone. My community fell to by terrorists."

The ride back was spent attempting to reach community members and at the same time protecting my son from the horrific images that spread across platforms.

The images during those hours transcended any possible expectation. A child from our community captured by several attackers. Someone who taught me transported to the territory on a golf cart.

Friends sent digital recordings that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend also taken into the territory. A woman I knew accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – captured by militants, the horror apparent in her expression stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It seemed to take forever for help to arrive the kibbutz. Then began the painful anticipation for information. As time passed, a single image appeared depicting escapees. My parents were missing.

During the following period, as community members worked with authorities identify victims, we searched the internet for traces of those missing. We encountered atrocities and horrors. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the circumstances became clearer. My senior mother and father – together with dozens more – were taken hostage from their home. My parent was in his eighties, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, 25 percent of the residents were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my parent left imprisonment. As she left, she looked back and offered a handshake of the guard. "Hello," she said. That image – a basic human interaction amid unimaginable horror – was transmitted everywhere.

More than sixteen months afterward, my parent's physical presence were returned. He died just two miles from our home.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and the visual proof still terrorize me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign for the captives, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the initial trauma.

Both my parents had always been peace activists. Mom continues, like other loved ones. We recognize that hate and revenge won't provide any comfort from our suffering.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. With each day, discussing these events becomes more difficult, rather than simpler. The children belonging to companions are still captive along with the pressure of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I describe dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed discussing events to campaign for hostage release, though grieving feels like privilege we don't have – and two years later, our work continues.

Nothing of this story serves as endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected hostilities from the beginning. The people in the territory have suffered unimaginably.

I am horrified by leadership actions, but I also insist that the organization shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Having seen what they did during those hours. They failed their own people – creating pain for all because of their violent beliefs.

The Community Split

Sharing my story with those who defend the attackers' actions seems like failing the deceased. My local circle faces growing prejudice, and our people back home has struggled with the authorities for two years while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

From the border, the devastation across the frontier is visible and visceral. It horrifies me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that many seem willing to provide to the attackers makes me despair.