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It started during that morning appearing perfectly normal. I rode together with my loved ones to welcome our new dog. Everything seemed secure – until everything changed.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed reports concerning the frontier. I called my mum, expecting her cheerful voice explaining everything was fine. No answer. My parent couldn't be reached. Next, I reached my brother – his speech immediately revealed the awful reality prior to he said anything.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've observed numerous faces through news coverage whose lives had collapsed. Their gaze demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of violence were rising, and the debris hadn't settled.

My young one looked at me over his laptop. I moved to contact people separately. Once we arrived our destination, I encountered the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the terrorists who captured her house.

I thought to myself: "Not one of our family could live through this."

At some point, I saw footage depicting flames consuming our residence. Even then, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – not until my brothers provided photographs and evidence.

The Fallout

Getting to the station, I contacted the puppy provider. "A war has erupted," I explained. "My family are probably dead. Our neighborhood has been taken over by attackers."

The return trip involved attempting to reach friends and family while simultaneously shielding my child from the horrific images that circulated everywhere.

The footage of that day were beyond anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by armed militants. My mathematics teacher driven toward the border on a golf cart.

People shared social media clips that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend also taken to Gaza. A woman I knew and her little boys – children I had played with – being rounded up by militants, the horror in her eyes paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It appeared interminable for assistance to reach the area. Then started the painful anticipation for news. As time passed, a single image circulated depicting escapees. My family were not among them.

For days and weeks, as community members worked with authorities identify victims, we searched the internet for signs of those missing. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. We never found footage of my father – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Gradually, the circumstances grew more distinct. My elderly parents – together with dozens more – were taken hostage from their home. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, one in four of our community members were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my mother was released from imprisonment. As she left, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of the militant. "Peace," she said. That moment – a basic human interaction amid indescribable tragedy – was shared worldwide.

Five hundred and two days later, Dad's body came back. He died just two miles from our home.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and the visual proof remain with me. The two years since – our desperate campaign to save hostages, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has compounded the initial trauma.

My mother and father remained advocates for peace. My parent remains, as are other loved ones. We recognize that hate and revenge won't provide the slightest solace from the pain.

I write this amid sorrow. With each day, discussing these events grows harder, instead of improving. The children from my community continue imprisoned and the weight of what followed is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I call dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We typically discussing events to campaign for hostage release, while mourning seems unaffordable we cannot afford – after 24 months, our efforts endures.

Nothing of this narrative serves as justification for war. I continuously rejected this conflict from the beginning. The residents across the border endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I am horrified by political choices, while maintaining that the organization are not peaceful protesters. Because I know their actions during those hours. They betrayed the community – causing suffering for everyone because of their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying the violence feels like dishonoring the lost. My local circle confronts growing prejudice, and our people back home has fought versus leadership consistently facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

Across the fields, the ruin of the territory appears clearly and visceral. It shocks me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that various individuals seem to grant to the organizations causes hopelessness.