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It unfolded on a morning that seemed entirely routine. I journeyed with my husband and son to welcome a furry companion. Everything seemed steady – before it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I saw updates concerning the frontier. I called my parent, hoping for her cheerful voice telling me she was safe. No answer. My parent didn't respond either. Afterward, my brother answered – his tone immediately revealed the terrible truth prior to he explained.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've seen so many people through news coverage whose existence were destroyed. Their expressions revealing they didn't understand what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of horror were overwhelming, with the wreckage was still swirling.

My son glanced toward me from his screen. I moved to make calls separately. By the time we reached the station, I encountered the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – shown in real-time by the terrorists who seized her house.

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

Eventually, I witnessed recordings depicting flames bursting through our house. Even then, in the following days, I couldn't believe the home had burned – not until my brothers sent me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

When we reached our destination, I contacted the kennel owner. "Conflict has started," I said. "My parents are likely gone. My community was captured by terrorists."

The return trip was spent attempting to reach friends and family while simultaneously shielding my child from the terrible visuals that spread through networks.

The images from that day exceeded all comprehension. A child from our community captured by armed militants. Someone who taught me taken in the direction of the territory in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured across the border. A young mother with her two small sons – children I had played with – captured by armed terrorists, the terror apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt to take forever for the military to come the area. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for information. Later that afternoon, a lone picture appeared showing those who made it. My family were missing.

Over many days, as friends helped forensic teams identify victims, we combed the internet for traces of family members. We saw atrocities and horrors. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no clue about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the circumstances became clearer. My elderly parents – together with dozens more – were abducted from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my mother 85. Amid the terror, a quarter of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my parent was released from imprisonment. Before departing, she turned and offered a handshake of the militant. "Shalom," she uttered. That image – a basic human interaction amid unimaginable horror – was broadcast globally.

More than sixteen months afterward, my father's remains came back. He died just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and their documentation still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has intensified the original wound.

My family were lifelong advocates for peace. My parent remains, like many relatives. We know that hostility and vengeance won't provide any comfort from this tragedy.

I compose these words amid sorrow. As time passes, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The young ones belonging to companions remain hostages with the burden of what followed remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I call dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We typically sharing our story to campaign for freedom, while mourning seems unaffordable we don't have – after 24 months, our efforts persists.

No part of this story represents endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed the fighting since it started. The residents of Gaza experienced pain beyond imagination.

I am horrified by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the militants are not benign resistance fighters. Having seen their actions during those hours. They abandoned their own people – causing pain for all through their violent beliefs.

The Community Split

Telling my truth with those who defend what happened seems like dishonoring the lost. My local circle experiences rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled versus leadership throughout this period while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

Looking over, the ruin in Gaza can be seen and painful. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that many seem willing to provide to the organizations creates discouragement.