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It started that morning looking entirely routine. I was traveling with my husband and son to collect a furry companion. The world appeared steady – until everything changed.

Opening my phone, I noticed reports from the border. I dialed my mum, hoping for her cheerful voice explaining everything was fine. No answer. My dad was also silent. Next, my sibling picked up – his voice instantly communicated the terrible truth even as he spoke.

The Unfolding Tragedy

I've observed so many people on television whose worlds were torn apart. Their expressions demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their loss. Then it became our turn. The torrent of violence were rising, with the wreckage remained chaotic.

My son looked at me over his laptop. I moved to reach out in private. By the time we arrived the city, I would witness the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the attackers who took over her house.

I remember thinking: "None of our friends could live through this."

Later, I saw footage depicting flames consuming our family home. Nonetheless, later on, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – until my brothers provided images and proof.

The Fallout

When we reached the station, I phoned the kennel owner. "Conflict has started," I told them. "My parents are likely gone. My community fell to by militants."

The journey home was spent attempting to reach loved ones while simultaneously guarding my young one from the awful footage that circulated through networks.

The footage from that day were beyond anything we could imagine. A child from our community taken by armed militants. Someone who taught me transported to the border on a golf cart.

People shared digital recordings that defied reality. A senior community member similarly captured across the border. A young mother accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by militants, the horror in her eyes stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It seemed endless for the military to come our community. Then started the painful anticipation for news. In the evening, a lone picture appeared of survivors. My mother and father weren't there.

Over many days, as community members worked with authorities identify victims, we combed the internet for signs of our loved ones. We witnessed torture and mutilation. We never found recordings showing my parent – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the reality grew more distinct. My senior mother and father – along with 74 others – were taken hostage from the community. My parent was in his eighties, my other parent was elderly. During the violence, one in four of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent emerged from confinement. Prior to leaving, she turned and offered a handshake of her captor. "Hello," she spoke. That gesture – a simple human connection amid unspeakable violence – was transmitted globally.

Five hundred and two days later, my father's remains were recovered. He was killed a short distance from our home.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and the visual proof still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts for the captives, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has worsened the initial trauma.

My family had always been advocates for peace. My parent remains, similar to other loved ones. We understand that hostility and vengeance won't provide the slightest solace from the pain.

I write this while crying. Over the months, sharing the experience grows harder, rather than simpler. The kids from my community are still captive with the burden of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I call dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We typically discussing events to advocate for the captives, while mourning remains a luxury we don't have – after 24 months, our efforts continues.

Not one word of this account represents endorsement of violence. I've always been against this conflict from the beginning. The population across the border have suffered terribly.

I am horrified by government decisions, but I also insist that the organization shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed their atrocities during those hours. They abandoned the population – ensuring pain for all through their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth with those who defend what happened feels like betraying my dead. My community here experiences unprecedented antisemitism, and our people back home has campaigned against its government consistently while experiencing betrayal again and again.

Looking over, the ruin in Gaza appears clearly and emotional. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the moral carte blanche that various individuals appear to offer to the organizations creates discouragement.