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It unfolded during that morning appearing completely ordinary. I journeyed together with my loved ones to welcome a new puppy. Everything seemed secure – then reality shattered.

Opening my phone, I saw reports from the border. I called my mother, expecting her cheerful voice telling me she was safe. Silence. My father couldn't be reached. Then, my brother answered – his tone immediately revealed the devastating news even as he spoke.

The Unfolding Horror

I've seen countless individuals in media reports whose existence had collapsed. Their expressions demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their loss. Now it was me. The floodwaters of violence were rising, and the debris hadn't settled.

My child glanced toward me over his laptop. I relocated to make calls alone. By the time we arrived our destination, I saw the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the militants who seized her house.

I recall believing: "None of our loved ones would make it."

Eventually, I viewed videos showing fire bursting through our house. Even then, later on, I refused to accept the house was destroyed – not until my siblings sent me images and proof.

The Fallout

When we reached the station, I called the dog breeder. "Conflict has begun," I said. "My family are probably dead. My community fell to by terrorists."

The ride back consisted of trying to contact community members while also shielding my child from the horrific images that spread through networks.

The footage during those hours transcended all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by multiple terrorists. My former educator taken in the direction of Gaza in a vehicle.

Friends sent social media clips that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion also taken into the territory. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – children I had played with – seized by armed terrorists, the terror in her eyes paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It seemed interminable for the military to come the area. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for news. As time passed, a lone picture circulated showing those who made it. My parents weren't there.

During the following period, as friends assisted investigators locate the missing, we combed digital spaces for traces of family members. We encountered brutality and violence. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no evidence about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the circumstances became clearer. My senior mother and father – together with 74 others – became captives from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. During the violence, 25 percent of our community members were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my mother was released from captivity. As she left, she glanced behind and shook hands of her captor. "Peace," she uttered. That gesture – a simple human connection amid indescribable tragedy – was transmitted worldwide.

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

The Ongoing Pain

These events and their documentation still terrorize me. Everything that followed – our determined activism to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the primary pain.

My mother and father were lifelong advocates for peace. My parent remains, similar to other loved ones. We know that hate and revenge don't offer the slightest solace from this tragedy.

I compose these words through tears. Over the months, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, not easier. The children belonging to companions remain hostages with the burden of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I describe dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed sharing our story to campaign for hostage release, while mourning seems unaffordable we cannot afford – now, our campaign continues.

Nothing of this narrative represents endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed the fighting from the beginning. The population across the border have suffered unimaginably.

I am horrified by leadership actions, while maintaining that the organization are not benign resistance fighters. Having seen their actions on October 7th. They abandoned the community – causing suffering for everyone through their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Discussing my experience with those who defend what happened appears as betraying my dead. The people around me experiences growing prejudice, and our people back home has struggled with the authorities throughout this period and been betrayed again and again.

Across the fields, the ruin of the territory is visible and painful. It horrifies me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that various individuals seem willing to provide to the organizations makes me despair.