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It began during that morning appearing completely ordinary. I was traveling together with my loved ones to welcome our new dog. Life felt secure – until reality shattered.

Opening my phone, I saw reports from the border. I tried reaching my mother, hoping for her reassuring tone explaining everything was fine. Silence. My parent was also silent. Next, my sibling picked up – his voice immediately revealed the terrible truth even as he spoke.

The Developing Horror

I've witnessed countless individuals through news coverage whose lives were torn apart. Their expressions revealing they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Now it was me. The torrent of horror were rising, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My young one looked at me from his screen. I moved to reach out alone. Once we arrived the city, I saw the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – a senior citizen – shown in real-time by the attackers who captured her residence.

I thought to myself: "None of our family will survive."

Eventually, I saw footage revealing blazes bursting through our residence. Despite this, later on, I refused to accept the home had burned – before my family provided images and proof.

The Aftermath

Getting to our destination, I contacted the puppy provider. "Conflict has started," I said. "My family are probably dead. Our kibbutz fell to by attackers."

The ride back was spent searching for friends and family and at the same time protecting my son from the awful footage that spread across platforms.

The images from that day transcended all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son captured by armed militants. Someone who taught me transported to the border in a vehicle.

People shared digital recordings that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion likewise abducted across the border. A woman I knew and her little boys – children I had played with – seized by militants, the terror in her eyes paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt to take forever for help to arrive the area. Then commenced the painful anticipation for news. In the evening, one photograph circulated showing those who made it. My mother and father were missing.

During the following period, as community members worked with authorities locate the missing, we combed online platforms for evidence of those missing. We encountered torture and mutilation. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the situation emerged more fully. My elderly parents – together with numerous community members – became captives from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, 25 percent of the residents were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my mother was released from imprisonment. Before departing, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of her captor. "Peace," she uttered. That gesture – a basic human interaction within indescribable tragedy – was broadcast everywhere.

Over 500 days later, my father's remains were recovered. He died only kilometers from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and the visual proof remain with me. Everything that followed – our determined activism for the captives, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has intensified the initial trauma.

My family had always been advocates for peace. Mom continues, like most of my family. We know that hostility and vengeance cannot bring any comfort from our suffering.

I compose these words through tears. With each day, discussing these events grows harder, instead of improving. The kids from my community continue imprisoned with the burden of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I term dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We typically sharing our story to campaign for the captives, while mourning remains a luxury we lack – now, our efforts persists.

Not one word of this story serves as justification for war. I have consistently opposed hostilities from the beginning. The population across the border endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by government decisions, but I also insist that the organization shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Having seen what they did that day. They betrayed their own people – creating pain for all because of their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story among individuals justifying what happened feels like dishonoring the lost. My local circle faces growing prejudice, and our people back home has campaigned against its government for two years while experiencing betrayal again and again.

Across the fields, the devastation across the frontier can be seen and painful. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that many appear to offer to the organizations makes me despair.