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It unfolded during that morning that seemed perfectly normal. I was traveling accompanied by my family to welcome a furry companion. Life felt steady – until everything changed.

Glancing at my screen, I saw updates from the border. I called my mother, anticipating her cheerful voice telling me she was safe. Silence. My parent didn't respond either. Then, my brother answered – his tone instantly communicated the terrible truth even as he spoke.

The Unfolding Horror

I've observed numerous faces on television whose worlds had collapsed. Their gaze showing they didn't understand their loss. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of horror were building, with the wreckage remained chaotic.

My son glanced toward me from his screen. I shifted to reach out in private. When we got to our destination, I encountered the terrible killing of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the terrorists who captured her home.

I thought to myself: "None of our friends will survive."

Later, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes consuming our family home. Even then, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the building was gone – not until my siblings provided visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

Getting to the city, I called the puppy provider. "Conflict has started," I told them. "My parents are likely gone. Our neighborhood has been taken over by terrorists."

The ride back involved attempting to reach community members while simultaneously shielding my child from the horrific images that circulated through networks.

The footage during those hours exceeded all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son captured by armed militants. My former educator taken in the direction of the territory using transportation.

People shared digital recordings appearing unbelievable. A senior community member likewise abducted across the border. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – captured by attackers, the terror in her eyes paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It appeared interminable for assistance to reach the area. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for updates. As time passed, a lone picture appeared depicting escapees. My family were not among them.

For days and weeks, as community members helped forensic teams document losses, we scoured the internet for evidence of family members. We saw atrocities and horrors. There was no footage of my father – no evidence about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the circumstances emerged more fully. My elderly parents – as well as dozens more – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, one in four of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my mother left captivity. As she left, she looked back and offered a handshake of the guard. "Hello," she spoke. That image – an elemental act of humanity within unspeakable violence – was shared globally.

Over 500 days following, my father's remains were returned. He was murdered a short distance from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and their documentation remain with me. The two years since – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the destruction across the border – has compounded the initial trauma.

My family had always been campaigners for reconciliation. My parent remains, as are most of my family. We understand that animosity and retaliation cannot bring any comfort from our suffering.

I compose these words while crying. With each day, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, rather than simpler. The kids of my friends continue imprisoned along with the pressure of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I term dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We typically telling our experience to fight for the captives, despite sorrow seems unaffordable we lack – after 24 months, our work endures.

Nothing of this story represents endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected hostilities from day one. The residents in the territory have suffered beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the organization are not innocent activists. Having seen what they did that day. They abandoned the population – creating suffering for everyone due to their violent beliefs.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story among individuals justifying what happened seems like dishonoring the lost. My local circle experiences rising hostility, and our people back home has fought against its government consistently while experiencing betrayal again and again.

From the border, the ruin of the territory can be seen and emotional. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that numerous people seem to grant to the organizations causes hopelessness.