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It started on a morning that seemed perfectly normal. I was traveling with my husband and son to pick up our new dog. Life felt secure – before everything changed.

Opening my phone, I discovered updates concerning the frontier. I called my mum, hoping for her reassuring tone saying she was safe. Silence. My parent couldn't be reached. Afterward, I reached my brother – his tone immediately revealed the terrible truth prior to he said anything.

The Unfolding Tragedy

I've seen so many people in media reports whose existence were destroyed. Their expressions demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Now it was me. The floodwaters of tragedy were rising, and the debris hadn't settled.

My son looked at me across the seat. I shifted to make calls in private. Once we got to the city, I encountered the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the attackers who captured her residence.

I recall believing: "Not a single of our friends would make it."

Later, I witnessed recordings depicting flames bursting through our family home. Even then, later on, I couldn't believe the building was gone – until my siblings provided visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Getting to the city, I phoned the kennel owner. "Hostilities has started," I said. "My family may not survive. Our neighborhood was captured by terrorists."

The journey home was spent attempting to reach loved ones and at the same time shielding my child from the terrible visuals that circulated across platforms.

The scenes from that day transcended any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son seized by armed militants. My former educator taken in the direction of Gaza in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion also taken across the border. A young mother accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – captured by armed terrorists, the terror apparent in her expression devastating.

The Painful Period

It seemed interminable for assistance to reach our community. Then started the agonizing wait for news. As time passed, a single image emerged of survivors. My mother and father were not among them.

For days and weeks, while neighbors worked with authorities document losses, we searched the internet for signs of our loved ones. We saw brutality and violence. We didn't discover footage of my father – no evidence about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the situation became clearer. My senior mother and father – together with dozens more – became captives from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my mother 85. In the chaos, 25 percent of our neighbors were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum emerged from confinement. Before departing, she looked back and shook hands of the guard. "Hello," she spoke. That image – an elemental act of humanity within indescribable tragedy – was shared globally.

Five hundred and two days afterward, Dad's body came back. He was killed only kilometers from where we lived.

The Persistent Wound

These experiences and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. The two years since – our desperate campaign to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has compounded the original wound.

My mother and father were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, as are other loved ones. We recognize that hate and revenge cannot bring even momentary relief from this tragedy.

I share these thoughts while crying. With each day, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The kids belonging to companions are still captive along with the pressure of what followed feels heavy.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I term focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We typically telling our experience to advocate for hostage release, while mourning seems unaffordable we lack – now, our campaign endures.

Not one word of this story serves as justification for war. I continuously rejected hostilities since it started. The people in the territory experienced pain terribly.

I'm appalled by leadership actions, but I also insist that the organization are not peaceful protesters. Having seen their atrocities during those hours. They abandoned the community – ensuring suffering for everyone through their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth with those who defend what happened appears as failing the deceased. My local circle experiences rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned with the authorities consistently facing repeated disappointment again and again.

From the border, the ruin across the frontier is visible and painful. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that various individuals seem to grant to the organizations creates discouragement.