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It started that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I journeyed together with my loved ones to collect a new puppy. Life felt predictable – until it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I noticed updates about the border region. I dialed my mum, expecting her reassuring tone saying they were secure. Silence. My father didn't respond either. Next, my sibling picked up – his speech instantly communicated the awful reality before he said anything.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've seen countless individuals through news coverage whose existence had collapsed. Their gaze showing they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The torrent of violence were building, with the wreckage was still swirling.

My child looked at me over his laptop. I relocated to make calls separately. By the time we reached our destination, I encountered the horrific murder of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the attackers who captured her residence.

I recall believing: "Not one of our friends will survive."

At some point, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes erupting from our house. Nonetheless, later on, I denied the house was destroyed – not until my family provided photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

When we reached the station, I contacted the puppy provider. "A war has started," I explained. "My parents are likely gone. Our neighborhood was captured by militants."

The journey home consisted of trying to contact friends and family while simultaneously protecting my son from the awful footage that circulated across platforms.

The images during those hours transcended anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by armed militants. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of the border using transportation.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured across the border. My friend's daughter and her little boys – kids I recently saw – seized by armed terrorists, the fear apparent in her expression devastating.

The Painful Period

It felt interminable for help to arrive our community. Then started the agonizing wait for news. As time passed, a lone picture circulated showing those who made it. My parents were missing.

Over many days, as friends worked with authorities identify victims, we combed digital spaces for evidence of our loved ones. We saw brutality and violence. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no clue about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the circumstances became clearer. My elderly parents – along with numerous community members – became captives from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. During the violence, a quarter of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

Seventeen days later, my mum emerged from captivity. Before departing, she looked back and grasped the hand of the militant. "Shalom," she spoke. That moment – a simple human connection during unimaginable horror – was transmitted globally.

Over 500 days later, my father's remains came back. He was killed only kilometers from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. The two years since – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the continuing conflict, the destruction across the border – has compounded the initial trauma.

Both my parents were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, like most of my family. We know that hate and revenge won't provide the slightest solace from the pain.

I compose these words through tears. As time passes, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, not easier. The young ones belonging to companions are still captive along with the pressure of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I describe remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We're used to sharing our story to advocate for freedom, while mourning seems unaffordable we don't have – after 24 months, our campaign persists.

Not one word of this narrative is intended as support for conflict. I continuously rejected the fighting since it started. The residents in the territory have suffered terribly.

I'm appalled by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the attackers cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Having seen their atrocities on October 7th. They abandoned the population – causing suffering for everyone due to their violent beliefs.

The Community Split

Sharing my story with people supporting what happened seems like dishonoring the lost. My community here faces unprecedented antisemitism, while my community there has fought with the authorities for two years and been betrayed repeatedly.

Looking over, the destruction in Gaza is visible and painful. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that numerous people appear to offer to militant groups makes me despair.