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It began during that morning that seemed perfectly normal. I journeyed with my husband and son to welcome a furry companion. Life felt predictable – before it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I noticed news concerning the frontier. I called my parent, anticipating her reassuring tone explaining everything was fine. Nothing. My dad didn't respond either. Then, I reached my brother – his speech instantly communicated the awful reality before he said anything.

The Unfolding Tragedy

I've observed so many people in media reports whose worlds had collapsed. Their gaze showing they didn't understand their loss. Now it was me. The torrent of horror were rising, with the wreckage remained chaotic.

My son glanced toward me across the seat. I shifted to contact people alone. When we reached our destination, I encountered the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the militants who took over her house.

I recall believing: "None of our loved ones could live through this."

Eventually, I viewed videos showing fire bursting through our residence. Even then, for days afterward, I denied the building was gone – not until my siblings provided images and proof.

The Fallout

When we reached our destination, I phoned the puppy provider. "Hostilities has erupted," I told them. "My mother and father may not survive. Our neighborhood fell to by militants."

The journey home consisted of searching for community members and at the same time shielding my child from the terrible visuals that were emerging across platforms.

The scenes from that day exceeded any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son seized by several attackers. My former educator taken in the direction of Gaza on a golf cart.

Friends sent social media clips that seemed impossible. A senior community member similarly captured to Gaza. A woman I knew and her little boys – boys I knew well – seized by militants, the horror in her eyes stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It seemed endless for the military to come our community. Then commenced the painful anticipation for updates. In the evening, one photograph circulated of survivors. My mother and father were not among them.

During the following period, as community members worked with authorities document losses, we searched online platforms for signs of family members. We witnessed brutality and violence. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the reality became clearer. My elderly parents – along with 74 others – became captives from their home. My father was 83, Mom was 85. In the chaos, 25 percent of our community members were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my parent was released from captivity. Before departing, she glanced behind and shook hands of her captor. "Shalom," she spoke. That gesture – a basic human interaction during unimaginable horror – was shared worldwide.

More than sixteen months later, Dad's body were returned. He died only kilometers from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These experiences and the recorded evidence remain with me. The two years since – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the primary pain.

My mother and father were lifelong peace activists. My mother still is, as are many relatives. We know that hostility and vengeance cannot bring any comfort from our suffering.

I compose these words while crying. Over the months, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The young ones of my friends remain hostages with the burden of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I term remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We're used to discussing events to fight for the captives, though grieving seems unaffordable we lack – now, our campaign persists.

No part of this story represents justification for war. I've always been against hostilities from the beginning. The people across the border have suffered terribly.

I am horrified by political choices, while maintaining that the organization cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Because I know what they did that day. They betrayed their own people – causing tragedy on both sides due to their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying what happened seems like dishonoring the lost. The people around me confronts growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned against its government for two years while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

Across the fields, the ruin in Gaza is visible and emotional. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that various individuals seem willing to provide to militant groups makes me despair.