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It began during that morning appearing entirely routine. I was traveling together with my loved ones to collect a furry companion. Life felt steady – then reality shattered.

Checking my device, I noticed news from the border. I called my mother, anticipating her calm response saying they were secure. Silence. My parent was also silent. Next, I reached my brother – his voice immediately revealed the awful reality even as he spoke.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've observed so many people in media reports whose worlds were destroyed. Their gaze revealing they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Now it was me. The deluge of tragedy were overwhelming, and the debris remained chaotic.

My son looked at me across the seat. I relocated to contact people in private. When we got to the city, I saw the terrible killing of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the militants who took over her house.

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

Later, I witnessed recordings depicting flames erupting from our family home. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I denied the building was gone – before my siblings sent me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at the station, I phoned the kennel owner. "A war has begun," I explained. "My mother and father are probably dead. My community fell to by terrorists."

The ride back involved searching for friends and family while also guarding my young one from the awful footage that circulated everywhere.

The scenes from that day exceeded anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son captured by armed militants. Someone who taught me transported to the border using transportation.

Individuals circulated digital recordings that defied reality. A senior community member also taken into the territory. A woman I knew and her little boys – boys I knew well – seized by militants, the fear in her eyes paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It appeared endless for assistance to reach the area. Then began the terrible uncertainty for information. As time passed, one photograph appeared of survivors. My family were missing.

During the following period, while neighbors helped forensic teams identify victims, we scoured digital spaces for evidence of our loved ones. We encountered brutality and violence. We never found footage of my father – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the situation emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – together with dozens more – were abducted from the community. My father was 83, my mother 85. In the chaos, one in four of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my parent was released from confinement. Before departing, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of her captor. "Peace," she spoke. That gesture – a basic human interaction within unimaginable horror – was shared everywhere.

More than sixteen months afterward, Dad's body came back. He was murdered only kilometers from where we lived.

The Persistent Wound

These experiences and the visual proof remain with me. The two years since – our determined activism to save hostages, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the devastation in Gaza – has compounded the original wound.

Both my parents were lifelong peace activists. My parent remains, as are many relatives. We recognize that hate and revenge don't offer the slightest solace from the pain.

I compose these words amid sorrow. With each day, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, rather than simpler. The young ones of my friends are still captive along with the pressure of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I term focusing on the trauma "immersed in suffering". We've become accustomed telling our experience to campaign for freedom, despite sorrow seems unaffordable we cannot afford – now, our efforts persists.

Not one word of this story is intended as justification for war. I have consistently opposed the fighting since it started. The population of Gaza experienced pain unimaginably.

I'm shocked by political choices, but I also insist that the militants shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed their atrocities that day. They abandoned their own people – creating tragedy on both sides because of their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth with people supporting the attackers' actions seems like betraying my dead. My community here faces rising hostility, while my community there has campaigned with the authorities throughout this period facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

Across the fields, the ruin across the frontier can be seen and emotional. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that many seem willing to provide to the attackers creates discouragement.