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It began on a morning that seemed perfectly normal. I rode accompanied by my family to welcome a furry companion. Everything seemed steady – then reality shattered.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered news about the border region. I called my parent, anticipating her calm response saying everything was fine. No answer. My dad was also silent. Then, I reached my brother – his speech immediately revealed the awful reality before he explained.

The Developing Horror

I've seen so many people on television whose existence were destroyed. Their expressions demonstrating they didn't understand what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of violence were rising, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My young one looked at me over his laptop. I moved to reach out in private. Once we reached the station, I would witness the brutal execution of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the attackers who seized her home.

I recall believing: "None of our loved ones would make it."

Later, I saw footage depicting flames erupting from our house. Nonetheless, in the following days, I couldn't believe the home had burned – not until my siblings provided photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

Getting to our destination, I contacted the dog breeder. "Hostilities has erupted," I explained. "My family are probably dead. Our neighborhood has been taken over by terrorists."

The ride back consisted of attempting to reach friends and family while also guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that were emerging everywhere.

The images from that day transcended any possible expectation. A child from our community captured by several attackers. Someone who taught me taken in the direction of the territory in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend also taken into the territory. A young mother and her little boys – children I had played with – being rounded up by militants, the horror visible on her face paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It felt interminable for help to arrive the area. Then began the terrible uncertainty for updates. In the evening, a lone picture circulated of survivors. My parents were missing.

For days and weeks, as community members helped forensic teams identify victims, we searched the internet for signs of those missing. We encountered atrocities and horrors. We never found recordings showing my parent – no clue regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the reality grew more distinct. My aged family – along with dozens more – became captives from their home. My father was 83, my other parent was elderly. In the chaos, 25 percent of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my mother left confinement. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and shook hands of her captor. "Hello," she uttered. That moment – a simple human connection within unimaginable horror – was broadcast globally.

Five hundred and two days afterward, my father's remains were recovered. He died just two miles from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These experiences and the recorded evidence remain with me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has intensified the primary pain.

My mother and father had always been campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, similar to other loved ones. We know that hostility and vengeance don't offer any comfort from our suffering.

I compose these words while crying. As time passes, sharing the experience grows harder, not easier. The children of my friends continue imprisoned and the weight of what followed remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I call focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We're used to sharing our story to campaign for freedom, though grieving remains a luxury we lack – and two years later, our work endures.

Not one word of this story is intended as support for conflict. I continuously rejected hostilities from day one. The people in the territory experienced pain beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the organization cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Having seen their atrocities that day. They betrayed their own people – causing suffering for everyone because of their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story with people supporting the violence feels like failing the deceased. My local circle faces unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned versus leadership for two years and been betrayed again and again.

Looking over, the destruction across the frontier appears clearly and emotional. It shocks me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that many seem willing to provide to the attackers creates discouragement.