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It unfolded during that morning that seemed entirely routine. I rode with my husband and son to collect our new dog. The world appeared secure – before it all shifted.

Checking my device, I discovered reports from the border. I tried reaching my mother, anticipating her calm response telling me everything was fine. Nothing. My father was also silent. Next, my sibling picked up – his speech already told me the awful reality before he said anything.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've seen so many people on television whose lives had collapsed. Their eyes revealing they couldn't comprehend their loss. Now it was me. The floodwaters of horror were overwhelming, and the debris hadn't settled.

My child looked at me over his laptop. I shifted to contact people in private. Once we arrived the city, I encountered the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the militants who took over her home.

I remember thinking: "Not one of our family would make it."

Later, I viewed videos depicting flames bursting through our family home. Even then, in the following days, I couldn't believe the building was gone – not until my siblings sent me visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at the city, I contacted the kennel owner. "A war has started," I explained. "My mother and father are probably dead. My community was captured by terrorists."

The return trip consisted of searching for community members while also shielding my child from the terrible visuals that spread across platforms.

The scenes of that day transcended all comprehension. A child from our community seized by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher driven toward Gaza in a vehicle.

Friends sent digital recordings that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion likewise abducted into the territory. A young mother and her little boys – children I had played with – being rounded up by attackers, the terror visible on her face stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt endless for help to arrive our community. Then started the agonizing wait for information. As time passed, one photograph appeared showing those who made it. My family were not among them.

During the following period, while neighbors assisted investigators locate the missing, we scoured online platforms for evidence of family members. We encountered atrocities and horrors. We never found recordings showing my parent – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the situation became clearer. My elderly parents – along with 74 others – were taken hostage from their home. My father was 83, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, a quarter of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

Seventeen days later, my mum was released from imprisonment. Before departing, she turned and shook hands of the guard. "Hello," she said. That image – a simple human connection during indescribable tragedy – was shared everywhere.

More than sixteen months afterward, my parent's physical presence came back. He was murdered a short distance from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the visual proof continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the primary pain.

My family were lifelong peace activists. My mother still is, like many relatives. We understand that animosity and retaliation won't provide any comfort from this tragedy.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. Over the months, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, not easier. The kids of my friends are still captive and the weight of what followed is overwhelming.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I describe dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We typically sharing our story to fight for freedom, despite sorrow seems unaffordable we don't have – now, our campaign continues.

Nothing of this story represents justification for war. I've always been against hostilities from the beginning. The population of Gaza experienced pain terribly.

I'm appalled by political choices, while maintaining that the attackers cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed their atrocities that day. They betrayed the community – ensuring tragedy on both sides because of their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Sharing my story with people supporting what happened feels like betraying my dead. The people around me confronts rising hostility, and our people back home has fought against its government for two years and been betrayed repeatedly.

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