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It started during that morning appearing completely ordinary. I journeyed accompanied by my family to collect our new dog. Everything seemed secure – then it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I saw reports concerning the frontier. I called my parent, hoping for her calm response telling me she was safe. Silence. My parent couldn't be reached. Next, my brother answered – his voice instantly communicated the devastating news before he said anything.

The Developing Nightmare

I've seen countless individuals through news coverage whose worlds had collapsed. Their expressions demonstrating they didn't understand their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The deluge of violence were building, amid the destruction was still swirling.

My young one looked at me across the seat. I shifted to reach out alone. When we arrived the city, I saw the brutal execution of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the militants who seized her house.

I recall believing: "Not a single of our friends will survive."

Eventually, I viewed videos showing fire consuming our family home. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I denied the building was gone – until my brothers provided photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

When we reached the city, I contacted the kennel owner. "Conflict has erupted," I explained. "My family are likely gone. My community has been taken over by terrorists."

The return trip involved trying to contact community members while simultaneously guarding my young one from the awful footage that were emerging across platforms.

The footage from that day transcended anything we could imagine. A child from our community seized by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher transported to the territory on a golf cart.

Individuals circulated social media clips that seemed impossible. A senior community member also taken to Gaza. A young mother accompanied by her children – children I had played with – captured by militants, the terror visible on her face devastating.

The Long Wait

It felt endless for help to arrive the kibbutz. Then started the agonizing wait for updates. In the evening, one photograph circulated depicting escapees. My family weren't there.

Over many days, while neighbors assisted investigators document losses, we scoured digital spaces for traces of family members. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. We never found footage of my father – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the circumstances emerged more fully. My aged family – as well as dozens more – became captives from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. During the violence, 25 percent of the residents were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my mum was released from imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of the militant. "Hello," she uttered. That moment – an elemental act of humanity amid unspeakable violence – was transmitted globally.

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

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the visual proof remain with me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts to save hostages, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the destruction across the border – has worsened the primary pain.

Both my parents were lifelong peace activists. My mother still is, as are most of my family. We recognize that hostility and vengeance cannot bring the slightest solace from our suffering.

I write this amid sorrow. With each day, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The kids of my friends remain hostages and the weight of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I describe remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We typically sharing our story to fight for hostage release, though grieving seems unaffordable we cannot afford – now, our efforts persists.

No part of this story is intended as justification for war. I have consistently opposed the fighting from the beginning. The population in the territory experienced pain terribly.

I'm shocked by political choices, yet emphasizing that the attackers are not innocent activists. Having seen their actions that day. They failed the community – causing tragedy on both sides through their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying the attackers' actions seems like betraying my dead. The people around me confronts unprecedented antisemitism, and our people back home has campaigned with the authorities throughout this period facing repeated disappointment again and again.

Across the fields, the destruction in Gaza is visible and visceral. It appalls me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that many seem to grant to the organizations causes hopelessness.