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It began on a morning looking perfectly normal. I journeyed with my husband and son to collect a new puppy. The world appeared secure – then reality shattered.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered news about the border region. I called my mother, hoping for her cheerful voice explaining she was safe. No answer. My dad couldn't be reached. Next, my brother answered – his tone immediately revealed the devastating news prior to he said anything.

The Developing Horror

I've observed so many people in media reports whose worlds had collapsed. Their eyes showing they didn't understand what they'd lost. Now it was me. The floodwaters of violence were rising, with the wreckage remained chaotic.

My young one looked at me across the seat. I moved to contact people in private. Once we arrived our destination, I would witness the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the attackers who seized her residence.

I recall believing: "Not one of our friends could live through this."

Eventually, I saw footage revealing blazes erupting from our family home. Despite this, in the following days, I refused to accept the home had burned – before my family sent me visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at the station, I phoned the kennel owner. "Conflict has erupted," I told them. "My family are likely gone. Our neighborhood has been taken over by attackers."

The journey home involved trying to contact community members and at the same time guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that spread across platforms.

The images during those hours exceeded anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by several attackers. Someone who taught me transported to the border on a golf cart.

People shared social media clips that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured across the border. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – children I had played with – being rounded up by attackers, the horror apparent in her expression devastating.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt interminable for the military to come the area. Then commenced the painful anticipation for updates. As time passed, one photograph appeared depicting escapees. My family were not among them.

For days and weeks, while neighbors worked with authorities locate the missing, we scoured digital spaces for evidence of family members. We encountered brutality and violence. We never found recordings showing my parent – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Emerging Picture

Over time, the reality became clearer. My aged family – along with 74 others – were abducted from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. Amid the terror, one in four of the residents were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother was released from confinement. As she left, she glanced behind and shook hands of her captor. "Shalom," she said. That image – an elemental act of humanity within unimaginable horror – was shared everywhere.

Five hundred and two days later, my father's remains were recovered. He was murdered only kilometers from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and their documentation still terrorize me. The two years since – our urgent efforts for the captives, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the original wound.

Both my parents had always been campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, like other loved ones. We recognize that hate and revenge won't provide the slightest solace from this tragedy.

I write this amid sorrow. Over the months, sharing the experience grows harder, instead of improving. The kids belonging to companions continue imprisoned with the burden of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I describe focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We typically discussing events to fight for freedom, while mourning seems unaffordable we don't have – now, our campaign continues.

Nothing of this story is intended as justification for war. I've always been against hostilities from day one. The population of Gaza experienced pain beyond imagination.

I'm shocked by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the attackers are not innocent activists. Because I know their actions on October 7th. They abandoned the community – ensuring tragedy on both sides through their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth among individuals justifying what happened seems like failing the deceased. My community here confronts unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned versus leadership consistently while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

Across the fields, the devastation of the territory is visible and visceral. It appalls me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that numerous people seem to grant to militant groups creates discouragement.