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It started during that morning looking perfectly normal. I rode accompanied by my family to collect our new dog. The world appeared secure – then reality shattered.

Glancing at my screen, I saw news about the border region. I called my mother, expecting her calm response explaining everything was fine. Nothing. My dad didn't respond either. Then, I reached my brother – his voice immediately revealed the awful reality before he said anything.

The Developing Horror

I've seen numerous faces through news coverage whose worlds were torn apart. Their expressions demonstrating they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The deluge of tragedy were overwhelming, and the debris was still swirling.

My young one glanced toward me from his screen. I moved to contact people in private. By the time we got to the station, I encountered the brutal execution of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the terrorists who captured her home.

I thought to myself: "None of our loved ones would make it."

At some point, I viewed videos revealing blazes bursting through our family home. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I refused to accept the house was destroyed – not until my siblings provided photographs and evidence.

The Consequences

Getting to the city, I contacted the kennel owner. "Conflict has started," I told them. "My parents are likely gone. Our neighborhood fell to by terrorists."

The ride back involved trying to contact loved ones while simultaneously guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that circulated across platforms.

The images during those hours exceeded any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son captured by several attackers. My former educator driven toward Gaza in a vehicle.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured into the territory. A woman I knew accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – being rounded up by militants, the fear in her eyes paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It appeared interminable for assistance to reach the area. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for news. As time passed, a single image appeared of survivors. My family weren't there.

Over many days, as community members helped forensic teams locate the missing, we combed digital spaces for signs of those missing. We encountered brutality and violence. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no clue about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the situation became clearer. My elderly parents – as well as numerous community members – were abducted from the community. My father was 83, Mom was 85. In the chaos, one in four of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my parent emerged from imprisonment. Before departing, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of the guard. "Peace," she said. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity during indescribable tragedy – was broadcast globally.

Five hundred and two days afterward, my parent's physical presence were returned. He was murdered just two miles from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the visual proof still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the initial trauma.

Both my parents were lifelong peace activists. My parent remains, similar to most of my family. We know that hate and revenge won't provide any comfort from this tragedy.

I share these thoughts through tears. With each day, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The children from my community remain hostages along with the pressure of what followed remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I describe focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed discussing events to fight for freedom, though grieving feels like privilege we don't have – and two years later, our campaign endures.

Nothing of this account serves as endorsement of violence. I've always been against the fighting from day one. The population across the border endured tragedy terribly.

I'm appalled by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the militants cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Because I know what they did that day. They betrayed the population – causing suffering for everyone through their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth with those who defend the violence seems like betraying my dead. My community here faces growing prejudice, and our people back home has fought versus leadership throughout this period and been betrayed repeatedly.

Across the fields, the devastation in Gaza can be seen and visceral. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that numerous people appear to offer to the attackers creates discouragement.