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It unfolded during that morning appearing completely ordinary. I journeyed accompanied by my family to welcome a furry companion. The world appeared secure – before it all shifted.

Checking my device, I saw updates concerning the frontier. I called my mother, hoping for her reassuring tone explaining everything was fine. Nothing. My father couldn't be reached. Then, my sibling picked up – his tone already told me the devastating news even as he spoke.

The Unfolding Horror

I've seen numerous faces through news coverage whose lives were torn apart. Their gaze revealing they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of horror were rising, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My son looked at me from his screen. I relocated to contact people in private. Once we arrived the city, I saw the horrific murder of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the militants who seized her home.

I remember thinking: "None of our family would make it."

Later, I saw footage revealing blazes erupting from our house. Even then, in the following days, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – before my siblings shared with me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Getting to the station, I contacted the kennel owner. "A war has begun," I said. "My family may not survive. Our neighborhood was captured by terrorists."

The ride back was spent attempting to reach friends and family while simultaneously guarding my young one from the horrific images that spread through networks.

The images during those hours were beyond all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by armed militants. My mathematics teacher driven toward the territory in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated digital recordings that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted to Gaza. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – boys I knew well – seized by armed terrorists, the fear visible on her face devastating.

The Painful Period

It seemed interminable for the military to come the kibbutz. Then started the agonizing wait for news. In the evening, a lone picture circulated depicting escapees. My family were missing.

During the following period, as friends assisted investigators locate the missing, we searched the internet for traces of our loved ones. We saw torture and mutilation. We never found footage of my father – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Gradually, the situation grew more distinct. My senior mother and father – along with dozens more – became captives from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. During the violence, 25 percent of our neighbors were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mum emerged from confinement. As she left, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of her captor. "Peace," she spoke. That moment – an elemental act of humanity within unimaginable horror – was broadcast everywhere.

Over 500 days later, my father's remains were recovered. He was killed only kilometers from our home.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and the recorded evidence remain with me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has intensified the original wound.

My family had always been peace activists. Mom continues, similar to many relatives. We recognize that animosity and retaliation cannot bring any comfort from our suffering.

I write this through tears. With each day, talking about what happened grows harder, not easier. The kids of my friends continue imprisoned along with the pressure of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I call dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We're used to discussing events to advocate for hostage release, despite sorrow remains a luxury we lack – now, our campaign continues.

Not one word of this story serves as support for conflict. I have consistently opposed the fighting since it started. The people in the territory have suffered unimaginably.

I am horrified by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the organization are not innocent activists. Since I witnessed their atrocities during those hours. They failed their own people – creating tragedy on both sides through their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Discussing my experience with people supporting the attackers' actions seems like failing the deceased. My community here faces growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned with the authorities throughout this period and been betrayed repeatedly.

Across the fields, the destruction across the frontier appears clearly and emotional. It shocks me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that many seem willing to provide to the organizations causes hopelessness.