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It unfolded on a morning that seemed entirely routine. I was traveling with my husband and son to pick up our new dog. The world appeared predictable – until reality shattered.

Glancing at my screen, I saw reports concerning the frontier. I dialed my parent, hoping for her reassuring tone telling me they were secure. Silence. My dad didn't respond either. Then, my brother answered – his speech instantly communicated the awful reality before he said anything.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've witnessed numerous faces on television whose lives were torn apart. Their gaze showing they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The torrent of tragedy were overwhelming, with the wreckage remained chaotic.

My young one looked at me across the seat. I relocated to make calls in private. By the time we arrived the station, I would witness the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the attackers who captured her house.

I remember thinking: "Not one of our loved ones would make it."

Eventually, I viewed videos revealing blazes erupting from our house. Despite this, in the following days, I denied the house was destroyed – before my family provided photographs and evidence.

The Consequences

When we reached our destination, I called the puppy provider. "Hostilities has begun," I told them. "My family are probably dead. Our kibbutz fell to by terrorists."

The journey home was spent trying to contact friends and family while also shielding my child from the horrific images that were emerging across platforms.

The footage of that day were beyond any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son taken by several attackers. Someone who taught me driven toward the territory using transportation.

People shared Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. A senior community member similarly captured across the border. A woman I knew accompanied by her children – children I had played with – captured by attackers, the horror apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It seemed endless for the military to come our community. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for information. In the evening, one photograph emerged depicting escapees. My parents weren't there.

For days and weeks, while neighbors helped forensic teams document losses, we combed digital spaces for signs of family members. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no clue regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the circumstances emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – along with 74 others – became captives from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my mother 85. During the violence, a quarter of the residents were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mother left captivity. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and shook hands of her captor. "Peace," she spoke. That gesture – a basic human interaction within indescribable tragedy – was shared globally.

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

The Persistent Wound

These events and their documentation still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism for the captives, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has compounded the original wound.

Both my parents were lifelong advocates for peace. My mother still is, similar to most of my family. We know that hostility and vengeance don't offer even momentary relief from our suffering.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. With each day, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The children from my community continue imprisoned with the burden of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I term dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We're used to discussing events to fight for hostage release, despite sorrow seems unaffordable we lack – now, our work continues.

Nothing of this story represents justification for war. I continuously rejected the fighting from day one. The residents across the border endured tragedy terribly.

I'm shocked by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the militants shouldn't be viewed as innocent activists. Having seen what they did on October 7th. They abandoned the population – causing tragedy on both sides through their deadly philosophy.

The Community Split

Telling my truth with those who defend the attackers' actions appears as dishonoring the lost. My local circle confronts rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned against its government consistently and been betrayed again and again.

From the border, the destruction across the frontier is visible and emotional. It shocks me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that numerous people seem to grant to the attackers makes me despair.