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It began on a morning looking perfectly normal. I rode together with my loved ones to welcome a furry companion. The world appeared secure – before it all shifted.

Checking my device, I saw reports from the border. I dialed my mother, anticipating her calm response saying she was safe. No answer. My parent couldn't be reached. Then, my brother answered – his tone immediately revealed the awful reality prior to he spoke.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've seen numerous faces on television whose existence had collapsed. Their gaze showing they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Now it was me. The floodwaters of horror were rising, with the wreckage was still swirling.

My child glanced toward me from his screen. I relocated to make calls alone. Once we got to the station, I would witness the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the terrorists who seized her residence.

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

Eventually, I viewed videos revealing blazes bursting through our family home. Even then, later on, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – until my siblings provided visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at the city, I phoned the puppy provider. "A war has begun," I told them. "My family may not survive. Our neighborhood fell to by terrorists."

The return trip consisted of searching for loved ones while also shielding my child from the horrific images that spread through networks.

The images during those hours were beyond all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son taken by armed militants. My mathematics teacher transported to Gaza using transportation.

Friends sent Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured into the territory. A young mother and her little boys – children I had played with – seized by attackers, the terror apparent in her expression stunning.

The Long Wait

It felt endless for the military to come the area. Then started the agonizing wait for information. Later that afternoon, a lone picture circulated showing those who made it. My family were not among them.

During the following period, as community members helped forensic teams identify victims, we scoured digital spaces for signs of those missing. We witnessed torture and mutilation. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the reality became clearer. My senior mother and father – as well as 74 others – were abducted from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. In the chaos, 25 percent of our neighbors were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my parent emerged from captivity. As she left, she turned and shook hands of her captor. "Hello," she spoke. That image – a simple human connection within unimaginable horror – was transmitted everywhere.

Five hundred and two days later, my father's remains were recovered. He died a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the visual proof remain with me. Everything that followed – our determined activism for the captives, my parent's awful death, the continuing conflict, the destruction across the border – has intensified the initial trauma.

My mother and father had always been advocates for peace. My parent remains, as are many relatives. We understand that hostility and vengeance won't provide any comfort from our suffering.

I compose these words through tears. With each day, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The children of my friends continue imprisoned with the burden of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I term remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We're used to telling our experience to advocate for hostage release, while mourning seems unaffordable we cannot afford – after 24 months, our efforts continues.

Not one word of this account serves as justification for war. I have consistently opposed this conflict from the beginning. The people of Gaza endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by political choices, but I also insist that the militants shouldn't be viewed as innocent activists. Because I know their atrocities on October 7th. They betrayed the community – creating pain for all because of their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story with those who defend the attackers' actions seems like betraying my dead. My local circle confronts growing prejudice, and our people back home has fought versus leadership throughout this period facing repeated disappointment again and again.

From the border, the devastation of the territory is visible and visceral. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that various individuals seem to grant to militant groups creates discouragement.