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It began on a morning looking entirely routine. I rode together with my loved ones to welcome our new dog. Life felt steady – until everything changed.

Opening my phone, I noticed updates concerning the frontier. I tried reaching my mother, anticipating her reassuring tone explaining everything was fine. Nothing. My parent couldn't be reached. Afterward, my brother answered – his voice already told me the awful reality prior to he said anything.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've seen so many people on television whose worlds were destroyed. Their expressions demonstrating they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of tragedy were overwhelming, and the debris remained chaotic.

My child glanced toward me from his screen. I moved to reach out in private. When we got to the city, I saw the brutal execution of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the militants who took over her house.

I thought to myself: "Not a single of our loved ones would make it."

Eventually, I saw footage showing fire consuming our family home. Despite this, for days afterward, I refused to accept the home had burned – until my siblings sent me images and proof.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at the city, I called the puppy provider. "A war has started," I explained. "My mother and father are probably dead. Our neighborhood was captured by militants."

The journey home involved searching for friends and family while simultaneously shielding my child from the terrible visuals that were emerging across platforms.

The footage of that day were beyond all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son taken by several attackers. Someone who taught me driven toward the territory using transportation.

People shared digital recordings that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured to Gaza. A young mother and her little boys – boys I knew well – captured by militants, the horror visible on her face paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt interminable for assistance to reach the area. Then began the painful anticipation for updates. Later that afternoon, one photograph appeared depicting escapees. My parents weren't there.

For days and weeks, as community members assisted investigators identify victims, we searched digital spaces for traces of those missing. We witnessed brutality and violence. There was no footage of my father – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the circumstances grew more distinct. My aged family – together with dozens more – became captives from the community. My parent was in his eighties, my mother 85. During the violence, 25 percent of the residents were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum was released from confinement. Prior to leaving, she looked back and grasped the hand of the guard. "Shalom," she said. That moment – a basic human interaction during unspeakable violence – was broadcast globally.

Over 500 days following, my father's remains were recovered. He was murdered only kilometers from our home.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and the visual proof continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the initial trauma.

Both my parents remained peace activists. Mom continues, as are other loved ones. We know that hate and revenge won't provide any comfort from the pain.

I write this while crying. With each day, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, not easier. The young ones from my community remain hostages and the weight of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I call remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We typically sharing our story to fight for the captives, though grieving feels like privilege we lack – now, our work persists.

Nothing of this account is intended as endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected the fighting since it started. The population of Gaza have suffered beyond imagination.

I'm shocked by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the attackers cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Having seen their actions during those hours. They abandoned the community – causing suffering for everyone because of their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story with those who defend the attackers' actions feels like failing the deceased. The people around me confronts growing prejudice, while my community there has fought with the authorities throughout this period while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

Looking over, the destruction across the frontier appears clearly and emotional. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that various individuals seem willing to provide to the attackers causes hopelessness.