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It unfolded on a morning looking entirely routine. I journeyed with my husband and son to collect our new dog. The world appeared predictable – until reality shattered.

Checking my device, I saw updates concerning the frontier. I dialed my mother, anticipating her calm response saying everything was fine. Nothing. My parent couldn't be reached. Next, my brother answered – his voice instantly communicated the terrible truth prior to he explained.

The Developing Nightmare

I've witnessed numerous faces in media reports whose lives were torn apart. Their eyes showing they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The deluge of violence were building, and the debris was still swirling.

My child watched me from his screen. I shifted to reach out separately. Once we reached the city, I encountered the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the attackers who seized her house.

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

Later, I viewed videos revealing blazes erupting from our house. Nonetheless, in the following days, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – not until my family shared with me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at our destination, I contacted the puppy provider. "Hostilities has started," I said. "My mother and father are probably dead. Our neighborhood was captured by militants."

The return trip involved attempting to reach loved ones while also protecting my son from the terrible visuals that spread everywhere.

The footage of that day were beyond any possible expectation. A child from our community seized by multiple terrorists. My former educator driven toward the territory on a golf cart.

People shared Telegram videos that defied reality. A senior community member similarly captured into the territory. A woman I knew with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – seized by militants, the terror apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It felt endless for assistance to reach the area. Then commenced the painful anticipation for information. In the evening, a single image circulated of survivors. My mother and father weren't there.

For days and weeks, as community members helped forensic teams locate the missing, we combed online platforms for traces of family members. We witnessed torture and mutilation. There was no recordings showing my parent – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the situation emerged more fully. My aged family – together with numerous community members – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. During the violence, a quarter of the residents were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my mother was released from captivity. As she left, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of the guard. "Hello," she spoke. That moment – a basic human interaction amid unspeakable violence – was shared everywhere.

Five hundred and two days afterward, my parent's physical presence were returned. He was murdered just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and the visual proof still terrorize me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign for the captives, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has compounded the primary pain.

My mother and father were lifelong advocates for peace. My parent remains, as are most of my family. We understand that animosity and retaliation won't provide the slightest solace from this tragedy.

I share these thoughts while crying. As time passes, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, not easier. The children from my community continue imprisoned with the burden of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I term remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We typically telling our experience to campaign for the captives, though grieving feels like privilege we lack – after 24 months, our efforts persists.

Nothing of this narrative represents endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed hostilities from day one. The population across the border experienced pain beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by leadership actions, but I also insist that the militants shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Having seen their actions during those hours. They failed the community – causing suffering for everyone due to their violent beliefs.

The Social Divide

Discussing my experience with those who defend what happened appears as failing the deceased. My community here experiences unprecedented antisemitism, and our people back home has struggled versus leadership consistently and been betrayed repeatedly.

From the border, the destruction of the territory is visible and emotional. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that numerous people appear to offer to the attackers creates discouragement.