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It started on a morning appearing perfectly normal. I journeyed accompanied by my family to collect a new puppy. Everything seemed predictable – until it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I noticed updates concerning the frontier. I called my mum, hoping for her calm response saying they were secure. No answer. My parent couldn't be reached. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his tone immediately revealed the devastating news prior to he said anything.

The Developing Horror

I've seen so many people on television whose worlds were torn apart. Their expressions revealing they hadn't yet processed their loss. Now it was me. The deluge of violence were overwhelming, and the debris was still swirling.

My son glanced toward me across the seat. I shifted to make calls alone. When we arrived the station, I saw the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the militants who seized her house.

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

At some point, I saw footage showing fire erupting from our family home. Even then, for days afterward, I refused to accept the building was gone – before my brothers sent me visual confirmation.

The Consequences

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

The return trip involved trying to contact community members while also guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that spread through networks.

The images during those hours were beyond anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by armed militants. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of the border on a golf cart.

People shared social media clips appearing unbelievable. A senior community member likewise abducted into the territory. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – captured by militants, the horror visible on her face paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It felt interminable for assistance to reach our community. Then started the agonizing wait for information. In the evening, one photograph appeared of survivors. My family were missing.

For days and weeks, as friends worked with authorities document losses, we combed online platforms for traces of family members. We saw torture and mutilation. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no evidence about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the reality became clearer. My senior mother and father – together with dozens more – were abducted from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. Amid the terror, a quarter of our neighbors were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum left captivity. Prior to leaving, she turned and grasped the hand of the guard. "Hello," she uttered. That image – an elemental act of humanity amid unspeakable violence – was shared globally.

More than sixteen months later, my father's remains were returned. He was murdered just two miles from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has compounded the original wound.

Both my parents were lifelong peace activists. My parent remains, as are many relatives. We know that hate and revenge don't offer the slightest solace from this tragedy.

I write this amid sorrow. Over the months, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, not easier. The young ones from my community are still captive and the weight of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I term focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed sharing our story to advocate for freedom, while mourning seems unaffordable we cannot afford – and two years later, our campaign continues.

Not one word of this story serves as justification for war. I've always been against hostilities since it started. The residents in the territory experienced pain terribly.

I'm shocked by political choices, yet emphasizing that the attackers shouldn't be viewed as innocent activists. Since I witnessed what they did that day. They abandoned their own people – ensuring pain for all because of their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth with those who defend what happened seems like dishonoring the lost. My community here experiences growing prejudice, and our people back home has campaigned with the authorities for two years while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

From the border, the destruction in Gaza appears clearly and visceral. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that numerous people seem willing to provide to the organizations creates discouragement.