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It began on a morning appearing completely ordinary. I was traveling together with my loved ones to pick up our new dog. Everything seemed predictable – then it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I noticed updates concerning the frontier. I called my mum, anticipating her reassuring tone explaining she was safe. Silence. My dad didn't respond either. Next, my brother answered – his speech already told me the terrible truth prior to he explained.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've seen so many people in media reports whose lives had collapsed. Their gaze demonstrating they didn't understand their loss. Now it was me. The floodwaters of violence were rising, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My son watched me across the seat. I shifted to contact people alone. When we got to our destination, I encountered the brutal execution of a woman from my past – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the terrorists who seized her home.

I remember thinking: "Not a single of our loved ones will survive."

Eventually, I viewed videos depicting flames consuming our residence. Even then, for days afterward, I refused to accept the home had burned – until my siblings shared with me images and proof.

The Fallout

Getting to the station, I called the dog breeder. "A war has erupted," I told them. "My parents are probably dead. Our neighborhood fell to by terrorists."

The return trip involved attempting to reach community members and at the same time shielding my child from the terrible visuals that circulated everywhere.

The images from that day were beyond anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me driven toward the border using transportation.

Individuals circulated social media clips that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted to Gaza. My friend's daughter and her little boys – kids I recently saw – captured by militants, the horror in her eyes paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It appeared endless for the military to come our community. Then began the agonizing wait for information. In the evening, a single image emerged of survivors. My parents were missing.

For days and weeks, as friends assisted investigators document losses, we combed digital spaces for traces of our loved ones. We witnessed brutality and violence. We never found footage of my father – no clue about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the reality emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – as well as 74 others – became captives from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, 25 percent of the residents were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my parent emerged from imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she looked back and shook hands of her captor. "Shalom," she spoke. That moment – a simple human connection amid unspeakable violence – was broadcast everywhere.

Five hundred and two days afterward, my parent's physical presence came back. He was killed only kilometers from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and the visual proof remain with me. The two years since – our determined activism to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the primary pain.

My mother and father remained advocates for peace. My parent remains, as are other loved ones. We understand that hate and revenge cannot bring the slightest solace from the pain.

I compose these words amid sorrow. With each day, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, rather than simpler. The children of my friends are still captive with the burden of what followed feels heavy.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I call focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We're used to telling our experience to campaign for hostage release, though grieving feels like privilege we don't have – now, our campaign endures.

No part of this narrative serves as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed this conflict from day one. The residents across the border experienced pain terribly.

I'm appalled by government decisions, but I also insist that the militants shouldn't be viewed as innocent activists. Having seen their atrocities on October 7th. They abandoned their own people – creating suffering for everyone through their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story with those who defend the attackers' actions seems like dishonoring the lost. My community here confronts unprecedented antisemitism, while my community there has fought with the authorities consistently and been betrayed again and again.

Looking over, the destruction across the frontier appears clearly and emotional. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that many seem willing to provide to the attackers causes hopelessness.