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It started that morning appearing perfectly normal. I journeyed with my husband and son to collect a new puppy. Life felt secure – then reality shattered.

Checking my device, I discovered news concerning the frontier. I tried reaching my parent, expecting her reassuring tone saying she was safe. No answer. My parent couldn't be reached. Then, I reached my brother – his tone already told me the devastating news prior to he said anything.

The Developing Nightmare

I've observed so many people on television whose worlds had collapsed. Their expressions demonstrating they couldn't comprehend their loss. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of tragedy were overwhelming, with the wreckage was still swirling.

My child glanced toward me from his screen. I relocated to reach out separately. Once we got to the station, I saw the terrible killing of a woman from my past – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the attackers who captured her residence.

I remember thinking: "None of our family will survive."

Later, I viewed videos revealing blazes consuming our house. Despite this, for days afterward, I refused to accept the house was destroyed – until my siblings sent me photographs and evidence.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at the city, I contacted the kennel owner. "Hostilities has begun," I said. "My parents are likely gone. My community was captured by terrorists."

The ride back involved trying to contact loved ones while also protecting my son from the awful footage that were emerging across platforms.

The scenes of that day transcended anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son seized by armed militants. Someone who taught me driven toward the border on a golf cart.

People shared digital recordings that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured to Gaza. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by attackers, the terror apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It felt interminable for help to arrive the area. Then began the painful anticipation for updates. Later that afternoon, a single image emerged depicting escapees. My parents were not among them.

Over many days, while neighbors helped forensic teams identify victims, we scoured the internet for signs of our loved ones. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the situation emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – together with numerous community members – became captives from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. In the chaos, one in four of the residents were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum left confinement. As she left, she looked back and grasped the hand of the militant. "Shalom," she uttered. That moment – a simple human connection during indescribable tragedy – was shared everywhere.

Five hundred and two days afterward, my father's remains were returned. He was killed just two miles from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These experiences and the visual proof continue to haunt me. The two years since – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has compounded the initial trauma.

Both my parents remained campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, as are many relatives. We understand that hate and revenge don't offer even momentary relief from our suffering.

I share these thoughts while crying. As time passes, sharing the experience grows harder, not easier. The kids belonging to companions remain hostages along with the pressure of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I term remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We typically sharing our story to fight for the captives, while mourning feels like privilege we lack – now, our campaign continues.

No part of this narrative is intended as endorsement of violence. I've always been against the fighting from the beginning. The population across the border endured tragedy unimaginably.

I'm appalled by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the militants are not benign resistance fighters. Having seen their atrocities on October 7th. They betrayed their own people – causing pain for all because of their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience with people supporting the violence feels like failing the deceased. My community here faces unprecedented antisemitism, and our people back home has campaigned with the authorities throughout this period and been betrayed again and again.

From the border, the ruin of the territory appears clearly and emotional. It shocks me. At the same time, the complete justification that various individuals seem willing to provide to the attackers causes hopelessness.