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It unfolded that morning looking completely ordinary. I journeyed with my husband and son to collect a furry companion. Everything seemed steady – until everything changed.

Opening my phone, I saw updates from the border. I tried reaching my mother, anticipating her reassuring tone explaining she was safe. Silence. My parent was also silent. Next, my sibling picked up – his speech already told me the awful reality before he spoke.

The Developing Tragedy

I've observed numerous faces through news coverage whose worlds were torn apart. Their eyes demonstrating they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The torrent of horror were rising, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My son glanced toward me from his screen. I relocated to make calls separately. By the time we reached the city, I saw the horrific murder of a woman from my past – a senior citizen – shown in real-time by the militants who seized her house.

I recall believing: "None of our family could live through this."

At some point, I viewed videos depicting flames erupting from our residence. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I denied the home had burned – not until my family sent me images and proof.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at the station, I phoned the dog breeder. "Conflict has started," I explained. "My mother and father may not survive. My community has been taken over by attackers."

The journey home involved attempting to reach friends and family while also protecting my son from the horrific images that spread across platforms.

The footage during those hours exceeded any possible expectation. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by armed militants. My former educator transported to the border in a vehicle.

People shared digital recordings that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion likewise abducted to Gaza. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – boys I knew well – captured by attackers, the terror in her eyes paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It felt endless for the military to come our community. Then commenced the agonizing wait for news. Later that afternoon, a lone picture circulated depicting escapees. My mother and father were not among them.

For days and weeks, while neighbors helped forensic teams document losses, we scoured digital spaces for signs of those missing. We saw brutality and violence. We never found footage of my father – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the situation emerged more fully. My elderly parents – as well as numerous community members – became captives from the community. My father was 83, my other parent was elderly. During the violence, a quarter of the residents were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mum emerged from captivity. As she left, she looked back and shook hands of the guard. "Shalom," she said. That image – an elemental act of humanity within indescribable tragedy – was transmitted globally.

Five hundred and two days later, my father's remains came back. He was killed just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These events and their documentation continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the continuing conflict, the destruction across the border – has intensified the initial trauma.

My family had always been advocates for peace. My mother still is, similar to other loved ones. We recognize that hostility and vengeance won't provide the slightest solace from this tragedy.

I share these thoughts through tears. Over the months, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The kids from my community remain hostages along with the pressure of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I call dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed discussing events to advocate for hostage release, while mourning feels like privilege we cannot afford – now, our work endures.

No part of this account is intended as endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected this conflict from day one. The population across the border endured tragedy unimaginably.

I'm shocked by leadership actions, while maintaining that the organization cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Having seen their actions that day. They betrayed their own people – causing tragedy on both sides because of their deadly philosophy.

The Community Split

Sharing my story with people supporting the violence feels like betraying my dead. My community here confronts rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned versus leadership for two years and been betrayed multiple times.

From the border, the ruin across the frontier can be seen and visceral. It appalls me. At the same time, the complete justification that many appear to offer to the organizations causes hopelessness.