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It began during that morning looking completely ordinary. I rode together with my loved ones to pick up a new puppy. Life felt steady – before it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I saw reports concerning the frontier. I dialed my mum, hoping for her cheerful voice telling me she was safe. Nothing. My parent was also silent. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his voice already told me the terrible truth even as he said anything.

The Emerging Horror

I've witnessed so many people on television whose lives were destroyed. Their eyes revealing they hadn't yet processed their loss. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of tragedy were building, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My young one watched me from his screen. I moved to contact people in private. When we got to our destination, I saw the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the attackers who captured her house.

I remember thinking: "None of our friends would make it."

At some point, I viewed videos showing fire erupting from our residence. Despite this, later on, I couldn't believe the home had burned – until my siblings sent me images and proof.

The Fallout

Getting to the city, I phoned the puppy provider. "Conflict has started," I explained. "My mother and father are likely gone. My community has been taken over by militants."

The ride back consisted of trying to contact friends and family while also guarding my young one from the awful footage that circulated across platforms.

The images during those hours were beyond anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by armed militants. My mathematics teacher driven toward the territory on a golf cart.

People shared social media clips that defied reality. A senior community member also taken across the border. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – seized by armed terrorists, the fear visible on her face devastating.

The Painful Period

It felt interminable for the military to come our community. Then commenced the painful anticipation for updates. Later that afternoon, one photograph emerged showing those who made it. My parents were missing.

Over many days, while neighbors helped forensic teams locate the missing, we scoured online platforms for traces of those missing. We saw torture and mutilation. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the circumstances grew more distinct. My elderly parents – along with dozens more – became captives from their home. My father was 83, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, a quarter of the residents were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mother was released from captivity. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and shook hands of her captor. "Peace," she uttered. That gesture – a basic human interaction amid unimaginable horror – was transmitted worldwide.

Five hundred and two days afterward, my father's remains were returned. He was murdered a short distance from our home.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and the visual proof still terrorize me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign for the captives, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has worsened the initial trauma.

My family had always been campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, like many relatives. We understand that animosity and retaliation don't offer any comfort from this tragedy.

I write this while crying. As time passes, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, not easier. The kids of my friends continue imprisoned along with the pressure of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I call remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We typically discussing events to fight for hostage release, while mourning seems unaffordable we cannot afford – after 24 months, our work continues.

Nothing of this narrative is intended as support for conflict. I've always been against hostilities from the beginning. The residents of Gaza experienced pain unimaginably.

I'm shocked by government decisions, but I also insist that the organization cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Because I know their actions that day. They betrayed their own people – causing suffering for everyone due to their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Sharing my story with people supporting what happened seems like betraying my dead. My community here confronts growing prejudice, while my community there has struggled versus leadership for two years and been betrayed again and again.

From the border, the destruction across the frontier can be seen and painful. It shocks me. At the same time, the complete justification that many seem willing to provide to the attackers causes hopelessness.