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It unfolded that morning that seemed entirely routine. I rode together with my loved ones to welcome our new dog. The world appeared predictable – until everything changed.

Glancing at my screen, I saw reports about the border region. I dialed my parent, anticipating her calm response explaining they were secure. No answer. My dad couldn't be reached. Then, my brother answered – his tone immediately revealed the devastating news before he said anything.

The Emerging Horror

I've observed numerous faces in media reports whose lives had collapsed. Their gaze demonstrating they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Now it was me. The floodwaters of tragedy were overwhelming, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My child watched me over his laptop. I moved to contact people separately. When we reached the city, I saw the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the terrorists who seized her house.

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

Eventually, I viewed videos depicting flames erupting from our residence. Despite this, for days afterward, I denied the building was gone – until my family shared with me images and proof.

The Consequences

When we reached the city, I contacted the puppy provider. "Hostilities has begun," I explained. "My family are probably dead. My community fell to by militants."

The journey home involved trying to contact community members and at the same time guarding my young one from the awful footage that spread across platforms.

The footage during those hours were beyond anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son taken by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher transported to the border using transportation.

Friends sent digital recordings that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion likewise abducted into the territory. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – children I had played with – captured by armed terrorists, the fear in her eyes devastating.

The Painful Period

It seemed to take forever for help to arrive our community. Then began the painful anticipation for updates. Later that afternoon, one photograph appeared showing those who made it. My parents were missing.

For days and weeks, as friends helped forensic teams locate the missing, we combed the internet for signs of our loved ones. We witnessed torture and mutilation. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no indication regarding his experience.

The Emerging Picture

Eventually, the situation emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – as well as numerous community members – were abducted from the community. My parent was in his eighties, my mother 85. Amid the terror, one in four of our neighbors were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my parent was released from captivity. As she left, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of the guard. "Peace," she said. That image – a basic human interaction amid indescribable tragedy – was transmitted everywhere.

More than sixteen months following, my father's remains were recovered. He was killed only kilometers from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and the visual proof continue to haunt me. The two years since – our urgent efforts for the captives, my parent's awful death, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has intensified the original wound.

Both my parents had always been peace activists. My mother still is, like most of my family. We know that hate and revenge don't offer even momentary relief from this tragedy.

I write this while crying. Over the months, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The kids belonging to companions continue imprisoned and the weight of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I term focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed telling our experience to fight for hostage release, while mourning seems unaffordable we cannot afford – now, our work endures.

Not one word of this account is intended as endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected the fighting since it started. The population across the border endured tragedy unimaginably.

I'm shocked by government decisions, while maintaining that the militants are not innocent activists. Because I know what they did during those hours. They abandoned their own people – causing tragedy on both sides because of their deadly philosophy.

The Community Split

Sharing my story among individuals justifying the violence feels like failing the deceased. My local circle experiences growing prejudice, and our people back home has struggled versus leadership consistently facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

From the border, the devastation in Gaza can be seen and emotional. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that numerous people seem willing to provide to the attackers creates discouragement.