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It unfolded that morning looking perfectly normal. I rode with my husband and son to pick up a new puppy. Everything seemed predictable – before everything changed.

Opening my phone, I discovered updates from the border. I tried reaching my mother, anticipating her calm response saying everything was fine. Silence. My dad was also silent. Next, my brother answered – his tone already told me the awful reality prior to he explained.

The Developing Tragedy

I've witnessed numerous faces through news coverage whose worlds were destroyed. Their expressions revealing they couldn't comprehend their loss. Now it was me. The deluge of tragedy were overwhelming, amid the destruction was still swirling.

My son watched me across the seat. I shifted to contact people separately. By the time we got to the city, I saw the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the terrorists who took over her house.

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

Eventually, I witnessed recordings showing fire bursting through our house. Despite this, later on, I refused to accept the home had burned – until my siblings shared with me images and proof.

The Consequences

Getting to the city, I phoned the puppy provider. "Conflict has started," I said. "My parents are probably dead. Our neighborhood has been taken over by terrorists."

The return trip was spent searching for community members while simultaneously shielding my child from the terrible visuals that spread through networks.

The images from that day exceeded all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by armed militants. My mathematics teacher driven toward Gaza on a golf cart.

People shared digital recordings that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion likewise abducted across the border. A young mother and her little boys – children I had played with – seized by attackers, the terror visible on her face devastating.

The Agonizing Delay

It seemed interminable for the military to come our community. Then started the terrible uncertainty for news. As time passed, one photograph circulated showing those who made it. My family were missing.

For days and weeks, while neighbors helped forensic teams locate the missing, we searched online platforms for signs of those missing. We encountered torture and mutilation. We never found recordings showing my parent – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Over time, the situation grew more distinct. My aged family – along with dozens more – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. Amid the terror, a quarter of our neighbors were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent emerged from imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and shook hands of the militant. "Hello," she spoke. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity during unspeakable violence – was shared globally.

More than sixteen months later, my father's remains came back. He was killed just two miles from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These events and the visual proof remain with me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism for the captives, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has worsened the primary pain.

My family were lifelong peace activists. My mother still is, like most of my family. We know that hostility and vengeance won't provide the slightest solace from this tragedy.

I compose these words through tears. With each day, sharing the experience grows harder, rather than simpler. The kids from my community continue imprisoned and the weight of the aftermath feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I describe dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed sharing our story to fight for the captives, despite sorrow feels like privilege we don't have – now, our efforts continues.

Not one word of this story represents endorsement of violence. I've always been against this conflict from the beginning. The population in the territory have suffered unimaginably.

I am horrified by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the militants are not peaceful protesters. Having seen what they did that day. They failed the community – causing tragedy on both sides due to their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth among individuals justifying what happened feels like dishonoring the lost. My local circle experiences unprecedented antisemitism, while my community there has struggled versus leadership consistently and been betrayed again and again.

Looking over, the destruction in Gaza can be seen and painful. It shocks me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that numerous people appear to offer to militant groups causes hopelessness.