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

Glancing at my screen, I noticed reports from the border. I dialed my mum, hoping for her reassuring tone explaining everything was fine. Silence. My father was also silent. Afterward, I reached my brother – his tone instantly communicated the awful reality even as he spoke.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've seen so many people through news coverage whose worlds were destroyed. Their eyes revealing they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of violence were rising, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My son looked at me from his screen. I relocated to reach out in private. When we reached our destination, I encountered the terrible killing of a woman from my past – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the militants who seized her house.

I thought to myself: "Not one of our friends could live through this."

Later, I saw footage depicting flames bursting through our house. Even then, later on, I couldn't believe the home had burned – before my siblings shared with me visual confirmation.

The Consequences

When we reached the station, I called the puppy provider. "Hostilities has erupted," I explained. "My family are likely gone. Our neighborhood fell to by militants."

The journey home was spent searching for friends and family while simultaneously shielding my child from the horrific images that were emerging across platforms.

The images from that day exceeded all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher driven toward the border using transportation.

People shared Telegram videos that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted across the border. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – children I had played with – captured by armed terrorists, the terror apparent in her expression devastating.

The Long Wait

It appeared endless for the military to come our community. Then began the terrible uncertainty for news. In the evening, a lone picture emerged showing those who made it. My family weren't there.

For days and weeks, as friends assisted investigators document losses, we searched the internet for signs of those missing. We encountered brutality and violence. We didn't discover footage of my father – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the situation emerged more fully. My elderly parents – along with 74 others – became captives from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. Amid the terror, one in four of our neighbors were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my mum was released from captivity. As she left, she turned and grasped the hand of the guard. "Shalom," she spoke. That moment – an elemental act of humanity within unimaginable horror – was broadcast worldwide.

Five hundred and two days following, my parent's physical presence were returned. He was murdered only kilometers from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These events and their documentation continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign for the captives, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the primary pain.

My mother and father remained peace activists. My parent remains, like other loved ones. We know that animosity and retaliation won't provide the slightest solace from the pain.

I compose these words through tears. As time passes, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The young ones belonging to companions are still captive and the weight of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I call remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We typically discussing events to campaign for the captives, though grieving seems unaffordable we lack – now, our work continues.

No part of this account is intended as justification for war. I continuously rejected hostilities from day one. The population in the territory experienced pain terribly.

I'm shocked by leadership actions, while maintaining that the organization cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Having seen what they did on October 7th. They betrayed the population – ensuring tragedy on both sides through their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story among individuals justifying the violence appears as dishonoring the lost. My community here experiences unprecedented antisemitism, and our people back home has fought with the authorities consistently while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

From the border, the ruin across the frontier appears clearly and painful. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that many seem to grant to the organizations creates discouragement.