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It unfolded on a morning that seemed perfectly normal. I rode together with my loved ones to welcome our new dog. Everything seemed steady – then reality shattered.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed reports about the border region. I tried reaching my parent, anticipating her cheerful voice explaining they were secure. Nothing. My father didn't respond either. Then, my sibling picked up – his speech immediately revealed the awful reality prior to he said anything.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've observed so many people in media reports whose existence were torn apart. Their gaze demonstrating they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Now it was me. The torrent of horror were building, and the debris was still swirling.

My son watched me over his laptop. I moved to contact people separately. When we got to the city, I saw the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the terrorists who took over her home.

I remember thinking: "Not a single of our loved ones would make it."

Later, I viewed videos revealing blazes erupting from our residence. Nonetheless, later on, I couldn't believe the building was gone – not until my siblings sent me images and proof.

The Consequences

When we reached the city, I phoned the kennel owner. "A war has started," I told them. "My parents are probably dead. My community fell to by attackers."

The ride back was spent attempting to reach friends and family and at the same time shielding my child from the terrible visuals that were emerging through networks.

The scenes of that day were beyond any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son seized by several attackers. Someone who taught me taken in the direction of the border on a golf cart.

People shared Telegram videos that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion also taken into the territory. A woman I knew with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by militants, the terror visible on her face paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It appeared endless for assistance to reach our community. Then began the agonizing wait for updates. Later that afternoon, one photograph appeared of survivors. My family weren't there.

During the following period, while neighbors helped forensic teams identify victims, we combed online platforms for signs of family members. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Emerging Picture

Over time, the situation emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – along with 74 others – became captives from the community. My father was 83, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, one in four of our neighbors were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my parent emerged from confinement. As she left, she turned and grasped the hand of the militant. "Shalom," she said. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity during indescribable tragedy – was shared worldwide.

Five hundred and two days later, my parent's physical presence were returned. He was killed only kilometers from where we lived.

The Persistent Wound

These experiences and their documentation remain with me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts for the captives, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the initial trauma.

My family remained campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, as are other loved ones. We understand that hate and revenge cannot bring the slightest solace from this tragedy.

I write this amid sorrow. Over the months, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The young ones belonging to companions are still captive along with the pressure of what followed feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

To myself, I describe focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We're used to discussing events to fight for freedom, though grieving feels like privilege we don't have – now, our efforts endures.

Nothing of this story serves as support for conflict. I continuously rejected hostilities from day one. The residents of Gaza experienced pain terribly.

I'm shocked by leadership actions, but I also insist that the militants cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Because I know their atrocities during those hours. They failed the community – creating tragedy on both sides due to their deadly philosophy.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying the attackers' actions feels like betraying my dead. My community here experiences rising hostility, and our people back home has campaigned against its government throughout this period and been betrayed multiple times.

Across the fields, the destruction across the frontier appears clearly and emotional. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the moral carte blanche that various individuals seem willing to provide to the organizations causes hopelessness.