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It began that morning looking completely ordinary. I was traveling together with my loved ones to welcome a furry companion. Everything seemed steady – until it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I noticed reports from the border. I called my mum, expecting her reassuring tone telling me everything was fine. Nothing. My father didn't respond either. Then, my sibling picked up – his speech already told me the awful reality even as he explained.

The Unfolding Tragedy

I've seen numerous faces in media reports whose lives were destroyed. Their gaze showing they didn't understand what they'd lost. Now it was me. The torrent of violence were building, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My young one looked at me across the seat. I shifted to reach out alone. Once we reached the city, I would witness the terrible killing of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the attackers who captured her house.

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

Eventually, I witnessed recordings showing fire erupting from our house. Despite this, for days afterward, I refused to accept the house was destroyed – not until my family sent me images and proof.

The Consequences

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

The return trip involved trying to contact community members while also shielding my child from the horrific images that were emerging through networks.

The footage from that day were beyond anything we could imagine. A child from our community captured by armed militants. My mathematics teacher driven toward the border on a golf cart.

People shared social media clips that defied reality. A senior community member similarly captured across the border. A young mother accompanied by her children – children I had played with – being rounded up by militants, the horror apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It appeared to take forever for the military to come the area. Then began the painful anticipation for updates. Later that afternoon, one photograph circulated showing those who made it. My parents weren't there.

Over many days, as friends helped forensic teams identify victims, we scoured online platforms for evidence of our loved ones. We encountered atrocities and horrors. We never found recordings showing my parent – no clue regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Over time, the circumstances grew more distinct. My senior mother and father – as well as dozens more – were abducted from their home. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. In the chaos, one in four of our neighbors were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my parent emerged from confinement. Prior to leaving, she turned and shook hands of the militant. "Hello," she spoke. That image – a simple human connection during unimaginable horror – was broadcast worldwide.

More than sixteen months following, Dad's body came back. He died only kilometers from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These experiences and their documentation continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has intensified the initial trauma.

My mother and father were lifelong advocates for peace. Mom continues, similar to many relatives. We understand that hate and revenge don't offer the slightest solace from this tragedy.

I share these thoughts through tears. As time passes, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, not easier. The kids belonging to companions are still captive and the weight of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I describe dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed sharing our story to campaign for freedom, while mourning remains a luxury we lack – and two years later, our campaign endures.

Not one word of this story serves as justification for war. I continuously rejected hostilities from the beginning. The people of Gaza endured tragedy terribly.

I'm appalled by political choices, yet emphasizing that the attackers cannot be considered innocent activists. Having seen their atrocities on October 7th. They failed the population – causing suffering for everyone because of their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story with those who defend what happened seems like dishonoring the lost. My community here experiences growing prejudice, while my community there has fought versus leadership for two years and been betrayed again and again.

Looking over, the devastation of the territory appears clearly and emotional. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that various individuals appear to offer to the organizations creates discouragement.