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It started on a morning appearing entirely routine. I journeyed with my husband and son to collect our new dog. Life felt predictable – before it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I saw updates about the border region. I tried reaching my mum, anticipating her cheerful voice telling me they were secure. Silence. My dad couldn't be reached. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his voice instantly communicated the devastating news prior to he said anything.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've seen countless individuals through news coverage whose worlds were torn apart. Their expressions showing they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Now it was me. The torrent of violence were overwhelming, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My child glanced toward me across the seat. I shifted to contact people separately. Once we got to our destination, I encountered the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the terrorists who captured her house.

I remember thinking: "None of our loved ones could live through this."

Later, I saw footage revealing blazes consuming our family home. Nonetheless, later on, I denied the home had burned – not until my brothers shared with me photographs and evidence.

The Consequences

Getting to the station, I contacted the dog breeder. "Hostilities has erupted," I told them. "My mother and father are probably dead. Our neighborhood fell to by terrorists."

The ride back consisted of attempting to reach loved ones and at the same time shielding my child from the awful footage that were emerging across platforms.

The scenes from that day transcended any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son captured by several attackers. My mathematics teacher transported to the territory on a golf cart.

Individuals circulated social media clips that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion also taken to Gaza. A young mother accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – captured by armed terrorists, the terror visible on her face stunning.

The Painful Period

It seemed to take forever for assistance to reach the area. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for information. Later that afternoon, a single image circulated depicting escapees. My parents weren't there.

For days and weeks, while neighbors helped forensic teams identify victims, we searched online platforms for evidence of those missing. We encountered atrocities and horrors. We never found recordings showing my parent – no clue regarding his experience.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the circumstances became clearer. My senior mother and father – together with numerous community members – were taken hostage from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. During the violence, a quarter of our neighbors were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my mother emerged from captivity. Before departing, she looked back and offered a handshake of the militant. "Peace," she spoke. That moment – a basic human interaction during indescribable tragedy – was transmitted everywhere.

Over 500 days afterward, my parent's physical presence came back. He died only kilometers from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These experiences and their documentation still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has worsened the initial trauma.

My family remained campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, similar to other loved ones. We know that hate and revenge don't offer even momentary relief from this tragedy.

I write this through tears. With each day, sharing the experience grows harder, instead of improving. The kids of my friends continue imprisoned along with the pressure of what followed remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I call remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed sharing our story to advocate for freedom, while mourning feels like privilege we lack – and two years later, our efforts continues.

Not one word of this account is intended as support for conflict. I continuously rejected hostilities from day one. The people of Gaza endured tragedy unimaginably.

I'm shocked by government decisions, but I also insist that the militants are not peaceful protesters. Because I know their atrocities that day. They abandoned the population – causing pain for all due to their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Discussing my experience with those who defend the violence seems like betraying my dead. My local circle faces growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought against its government consistently while experiencing betrayal again and again.

Looking over, the devastation across the frontier can be seen and painful. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that numerous people seem to grant to the organizations creates discouragement.