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It started on a morning appearing completely ordinary. I journeyed accompanied by my family to pick up a furry companion. Life felt steady – before everything changed.

Opening my phone, I noticed news from the border. I dialed my mother, hoping for her reassuring tone saying they were secure. Silence. My dad was also silent. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his speech immediately revealed the terrible truth even as he spoke.

The Developing Horror

I've observed so many people through news coverage whose lives were torn apart. Their eyes showing they hadn't yet processed their loss. Now it was me. The deluge of horror were rising, with the wreckage remained chaotic.

My son glanced toward me across the seat. I relocated to reach out in private. When we got to the station, I saw the brutal execution of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the terrorists who seized her residence.

I recall believing: "Not one of our family would make it."

Later, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes consuming our house. Nonetheless, in the following days, I denied the house was destroyed – before my family provided visual confirmation.

The Consequences

When we reached the city, I phoned the kennel owner. "Hostilities has started," I said. "My mother and father are probably dead. My community has been taken over by terrorists."

The journey home involved trying to contact friends and family and at the same time protecting my son from the awful footage that spread through networks.

The images of that day exceeded any possible expectation. A child from our community taken by several attackers. My former educator driven toward the territory using transportation.

People shared digital recordings that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion likewise abducted into the territory. A young mother accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – seized by militants, the fear apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It seemed interminable for assistance to reach our community. Then started the agonizing wait for updates. Later that afternoon, a lone picture emerged of survivors. My parents were not among them.

For days and weeks, as community members helped forensic teams locate the missing, we searched digital spaces for traces of those missing. We encountered atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover footage of my father – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Emerging Picture

Over time, the reality emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – along with 74 others – became captives from their home. My father was 83, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, 25 percent of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother emerged from captivity. Before departing, she looked back and shook hands of the militant. "Peace," she spoke. That moment – an elemental act of humanity during unimaginable horror – was shared everywhere.

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

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and the visual proof continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has compounded the initial trauma.

My family remained advocates for peace. My parent remains, like most of my family. We understand that animosity and retaliation don't offer the slightest solace from the pain.

I write this through tears. As time passes, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, not easier. The kids from my community continue imprisoned along with the pressure of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I term focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We're used to telling our experience to advocate for the captives, while mourning remains a luxury we cannot afford – and two years later, our efforts continues.

Nothing of this narrative serves as endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected hostilities since it started. The population of Gaza endured tragedy unimaginably.

I am horrified by leadership actions, while maintaining that the attackers shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Having seen their actions during those hours. They betrayed the community – causing suffering for everyone through their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying what happened seems like betraying my dead. The people around me confronts rising hostility, while my community there has fought against its government consistently facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

Across the fields, the devastation across the frontier appears clearly and visceral. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that various individuals seem willing to provide to militant groups makes me despair.