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It unfolded on a morning that seemed completely ordinary. I was traveling accompanied by my family to welcome our new dog. Everything seemed predictable – until it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I saw reports from the border. I tried reaching my parent, hoping for her calm response telling me they were secure. No answer. My parent was also silent. Then, my sibling picked up – his voice instantly communicated the terrible truth even as he explained.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've witnessed countless individuals on television whose worlds were destroyed. Their eyes revealing they couldn't comprehend their loss. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of tragedy were rising, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My young one watched me over his laptop. I moved to reach out in private. Once we reached the city, I encountered the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the terrorists who captured her house.

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

Later, I saw footage depicting flames bursting through our residence. Despite this, in the following days, I denied the house was destroyed – not until my family provided images and proof.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at our destination, I contacted the kennel owner. "Hostilities has begun," I said. "My mother and father are probably dead. Our kibbutz was captured by attackers."

The ride back was spent searching for friends and family while also guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that were emerging through networks.

The scenes of that day transcended any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son captured by several attackers. My mathematics teacher driven toward Gaza in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated digital recordings appearing unbelievable. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured into the territory. A young mother accompanied by her children – children I had played with – being rounded up by militants, the horror in her eyes devastating.

The Long Wait

It felt interminable for help to arrive our community. Then started the terrible uncertainty for information. As time passed, one photograph appeared depicting escapees. My mother and father weren't there.

For days and weeks, as community members worked with authorities document losses, we combed digital spaces for evidence of our loved ones. We witnessed brutality and violence. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no clue regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the situation emerged more fully. My elderly parents – as well as numerous community members – were taken hostage from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. In the chaos, one in four of the residents were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my parent emerged from captivity. As she left, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of her captor. "Peace," she spoke. That gesture – a simple human connection within unspeakable violence – was transmitted worldwide.

More than sixteen months later, my father's remains came back. He was killed a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the visual proof continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the initial trauma.

Both my parents remained peace activists. My parent remains, as are other loved ones. We recognize that animosity and retaliation don't offer any comfort from the pain.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. With each day, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, not easier. The kids from my community are still captive with the burden of what followed feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I term dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed discussing events to advocate for freedom, though grieving remains a luxury we don't have – and two years later, our campaign endures.

Not one word of this account represents endorsement of violence. I've always been against the fighting from the beginning. The people across the border have suffered beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by political choices, yet emphasizing that the militants cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Because I know their actions on October 7th. They betrayed the population – causing tragedy on both sides due to their violent beliefs.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth with people supporting the attackers' actions appears as failing the deceased. My community here faces rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled versus leadership for two years facing repeated disappointment multiple times.

Looking over, the devastation across the frontier can be seen and painful. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that various individuals seem willing to provide to militant groups causes hopelessness.