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It began during that morning that seemed entirely routine. I rode accompanied by my family to welcome a new puppy. The world appeared secure – then everything changed.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered reports about the border region. I dialed my parent, hoping for her reassuring tone explaining they were secure. Silence. My father couldn't be reached. Next, my sibling picked up – his speech immediately revealed the awful reality prior to he explained.

The Developing Nightmare

I've witnessed so many people through news coverage whose lives had collapsed. Their eyes demonstrating they didn't understand their tragedy. Now it was me. The deluge of horror were overwhelming, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My child glanced toward me across the seat. I moved to contact people in private. By the time we arrived our destination, I would witness the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the attackers who captured her house.

I recall believing: "Not a single of our loved ones would make it."

Eventually, I saw footage showing fire erupting from our house. Nonetheless, later on, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – until my family sent me photographs and evidence.

The Consequences

Upon arriving at the city, I called the dog breeder. "Conflict has begun," I told them. "My parents may not survive. My community was captured by attackers."

The return trip involved attempting to reach loved ones while also shielding my child from the horrific images that circulated through networks.

The footage during those hours transcended any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son captured by armed militants. My former educator taken in the direction of the territory on a golf cart.

Friends sent social media clips appearing unbelievable. A senior community member similarly captured into the territory. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – boys I knew well – captured by armed terrorists, the fear in her eyes devastating.

The Long Wait

It seemed interminable for help to arrive the area. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for updates. Later that afternoon, a single image appeared of survivors. My family weren't there.

Over many days, as friends assisted investigators locate the missing, we searched online platforms for signs of family members. We encountered brutality and violence. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the reality became clearer. My elderly parents – as well as dozens more – were abducted from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. During the violence, 25 percent of the residents were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent left captivity. Before departing, she looked back and offered a handshake of the guard. "Peace," she spoke. That gesture – a basic human interaction during indescribable tragedy – was shared globally.

Five hundred and two days later, my father's remains were recovered. He was murdered a short distance from our home.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and the visual proof remain with me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign to save hostages, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the initial trauma.

Both my parents remained advocates for peace. My parent remains, as are many relatives. We understand that hate and revenge won't provide even momentary relief from our suffering.

I compose these words while crying. As time passes, talking about what happened grows harder, not easier. The young ones belonging to companions continue imprisoned with the burden of what followed remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I term dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We typically sharing our story to advocate for hostage release, despite sorrow seems unaffordable we lack – after 24 months, our campaign endures.

Not one word of this story is intended as justification for war. I have consistently opposed the fighting from day one. The population of Gaza experienced pain beyond imagination.

I'm shocked by government decisions, but I also insist that the organization are not peaceful protesters. Because I know their atrocities that day. They abandoned the population – creating suffering for everyone because of their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story with those who defend the attackers' actions seems like failing the deceased. My local circle experiences rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought versus leadership for two years while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

Across the fields, the ruin in Gaza can be seen and painful. It shocks me. At the same time, the complete justification that numerous people seem to grant to the organizations creates discouragement.