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It began during that morning looking perfectly normal. I journeyed accompanied by my family to pick up a furry companion. Everything seemed predictable – before everything changed.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered updates from the border. I called my mum, expecting her reassuring tone explaining everything was fine. Nothing. My parent couldn't be reached. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his tone instantly communicated the awful reality prior to he explained.

The Unfolding Tragedy

I've witnessed numerous faces on television whose lives had collapsed. Their gaze revealing they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Now it was me. The deluge of tragedy were rising, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My son glanced toward me across the seat. I moved to make calls separately. By the time we got to the station, I encountered the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – a senior citizen – shown in real-time by the attackers who took over her house.

I remember thinking: "Not one of our family will survive."

Eventually, I saw footage depicting flames erupting from our family home. Even then, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the building was gone – before my family sent me images and proof.

The Consequences

Upon arriving at the station, I contacted the kennel owner. "Hostilities has started," I said. "My mother and father are probably dead. Our neighborhood has been taken over by militants."

The journey home involved attempting to reach loved ones while simultaneously protecting my son from the terrible visuals that spread through networks.

The images of that day transcended anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by armed militants. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of the border in a vehicle.

People shared digital recordings appearing unbelievable. A senior community member similarly captured across the border. A young mother and her little boys – kids I recently saw – seized by militants, the fear apparent in her expression stunning.

The Painful Period

It seemed to take forever for help to arrive our community. Then began the terrible uncertainty for updates. In the evening, a lone picture circulated depicting escapees. My parents were missing.

For days and weeks, as friends worked with authorities identify victims, we scoured the internet for signs of those missing. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. We never found recordings showing my parent – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Gradually, the situation became clearer. My aged family – as well as dozens more – were abducted from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. In the chaos, 25 percent of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent emerged from imprisonment. As she left, she looked back and shook hands of her captor. "Hello," she said. That image – a basic human interaction during unspeakable violence – was transmitted globally.

Over 500 days later, Dad's body came back. He was killed a short distance from our home.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and the visual proof continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts to save hostages, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the original wound.

My family were lifelong peace activists. Mom continues, like other loved ones. We know that animosity and retaliation don't offer any comfort from this tragedy.

I write this amid sorrow. Over the months, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, not easier. The kids from my community remain hostages and the weight of the aftermath feels heavy.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I term focusing on the trauma "immersed in suffering". We typically telling our experience to campaign for freedom, while mourning feels like privilege we don't have – now, our work persists.

Nothing of this narrative represents endorsement of violence. I've always been against this conflict since it started. The population in the territory have suffered unimaginably.

I am horrified by political choices, but I also insist that the organization shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Because I know their atrocities that day. They failed their own people – causing pain for all due to their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story with those who defend the violence seems like betraying my dead. My community here faces unprecedented antisemitism, and our people back home has campaigned against its government for two years while experiencing betrayal again and again.

Looking over, the devastation of the territory is visible and painful. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that numerous people seem willing to provide to the organizations creates discouragement.