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It unfolded during that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I journeyed accompanied by my family to collect our new dog. The world appeared steady – then everything changed.

Checking my device, I noticed news from the border. I dialed my mother, expecting her reassuring tone telling me everything was fine. Nothing. My dad couldn't be reached. Then, my sibling picked up – his speech already told me the awful reality prior to he said anything.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've seen so many people in media reports whose lives were torn apart. Their expressions showing they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of violence were building, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My son glanced toward me over his laptop. I shifted to contact people alone. By the time we got to the city, I would witness the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the attackers who captured her house.

I thought to myself: "Not a single of our friends will survive."

Later, I saw footage revealing blazes consuming our house. Even then, in the following days, I refused to accept the house was destroyed – not until my family shared with me images and proof.

The Consequences

Upon arriving at our destination, I contacted the puppy provider. "A war has started," I explained. "My parents may not survive. My community fell to by attackers."

The journey home was spent trying to contact friends and family while also guarding my young one from the horrific images that spread across platforms.

The footage from that day transcended all comprehension. A child from our community seized by armed militants. My mathematics teacher driven toward the border in a vehicle.

Friends sent digital recordings appearing unbelievable. My mother's elderly companion also taken across the border. A young mother and her little boys – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by militants, the horror in her eyes paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It appeared to take forever for the military to come the kibbutz. Then started the painful anticipation for news. In the evening, one photograph circulated depicting escapees. My family were missing.

For days and weeks, as community members worked with authorities locate the missing, we searched online platforms for signs of our loved ones. We witnessed torture and mutilation. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no clue regarding his experience.

The Emerging Picture

Eventually, the situation became clearer. My elderly parents – along with 74 others – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my mother 85. In the chaos, one in four of our community members were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother emerged from confinement. As she left, she turned and grasped the hand of her captor. "Shalom," she said. That moment – an elemental act of humanity during indescribable tragedy – was broadcast worldwide.

Over 500 days afterward, Dad's body were recovered. He was killed a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These events and their documentation remain with me. Everything that followed – our determined activism for the captives, my parent's awful death, the continuing conflict, the destruction across the border – has worsened the initial trauma.

My mother and father remained campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, as are many relatives. We understand that animosity and retaliation don't offer even momentary relief from the pain.

I write this while crying. Over the months, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, rather than simpler. The young ones belonging to companions continue imprisoned with the burden of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I call dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We typically discussing events to fight for hostage release, despite sorrow remains a luxury we lack – now, our efforts persists.

Nothing of this narrative represents justification for war. I have consistently opposed the fighting since it started. The residents of Gaza experienced pain terribly.

I'm appalled by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the organization cannot be considered innocent activists. Because I know their atrocities that day. They betrayed the community – causing tragedy on both sides due to their deadly philosophy.

The Community Split

Sharing my story with those who defend the attackers' actions feels like dishonoring the lost. My local circle experiences growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled against its government throughout this period and been betrayed again and again.

Looking over, the devastation in Gaza is visible and visceral. It horrifies me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that numerous people appear to offer to the attackers creates discouragement.