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It started that morning that seemed entirely routine. I was traveling accompanied by my family to collect our new dog. Everything seemed predictable – until reality shattered.

Checking my device, I noticed news about the border region. I tried reaching my mother, anticipating her cheerful voice explaining she was safe. Silence. My dad didn't respond either. Then, my sibling picked up – his voice instantly communicated the devastating news before he said anything.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've seen numerous faces on television whose existence were torn apart. Their gaze revealing they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The torrent of horror were overwhelming, amid the destruction was still swirling.

My child looked at me from his screen. I shifted to make calls in private. When we arrived the city, I saw the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the attackers who seized her home.

I remember thinking: "None of our family could live through this."

Eventually, I viewed videos revealing blazes consuming our house. Nonetheless, in the following days, I couldn't believe the building was gone – not until my family sent me visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

Getting to our destination, I called the puppy provider. "Hostilities has started," I explained. "My mother and father may not survive. My community was captured by attackers."

The return trip involved attempting to reach loved ones while also guarding my young one from the awful footage that were emerging across platforms.

The images of that day transcended anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son captured by armed militants. My mathematics teacher transported to the territory on a golf cart.

People shared digital recordings that seemed impossible. A senior community member similarly captured to Gaza. A young mother and her little boys – boys I knew well – captured by militants, the fear in her eyes paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It felt to take forever for the military to come the area. Then started the terrible uncertainty for information. Later that afternoon, a single image circulated of survivors. My parents were missing.

For days and weeks, as friends worked with authorities locate the missing, we scoured online platforms for evidence of family members. We witnessed brutality and violence. We never found footage of my father – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the reality grew more distinct. My senior mother and father – as well as dozens more – were taken hostage from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. During the violence, one in four of the residents were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my mother was released from captivity. Before departing, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of her captor. "Peace," she uttered. That image – a basic human interaction within indescribable tragedy – was broadcast worldwide.

Five hundred and two days later, my parent's physical presence came back. He was murdered just two miles from our home.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and their documentation continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts for the captives, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has intensified the initial trauma.

My family were lifelong advocates for peace. My parent remains, similar to many relatives. We recognize that animosity and retaliation cannot bring any comfort from our suffering.

I compose these words while crying. With each day, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, not easier. The kids belonging to companions are still captive and the weight of subsequent events is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I call remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We're used to telling our experience to campaign for the captives, though grieving feels like privilege we lack – after 24 months, our efforts persists.

Nothing of this story represents endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected the fighting from the beginning. The residents across the border experienced pain beyond imagination.

I'm shocked by political choices, but I also insist that the militants shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed their actions that day. They betrayed their own people – ensuring suffering for everyone through their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying the violence feels like betraying my dead. The people around me confronts rising hostility, and our people back home has struggled with the authorities consistently while experiencing betrayal again and again.

From the border, the destruction in Gaza can be seen and emotional. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that numerous people seem to grant to the attackers causes hopelessness.