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It began during that morning appearing entirely routine. I rode with my husband and son to pick up our new dog. Everything seemed steady – before it all shifted.

Checking my device, I noticed reports from the border. I called my parent, expecting her reassuring tone saying she was safe. Silence. My parent couldn't be reached. Next, my sibling picked up – his tone immediately revealed the devastating news before he spoke.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've witnessed numerous faces on television whose worlds were torn apart. Their eyes demonstrating they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of tragedy were overwhelming, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My young one looked at me over his laptop. I moved to contact people separately. By the time we reached the city, I encountered the terrible killing of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the terrorists who seized her residence.

I recall believing: "Not a single of our friends could live through this."

Eventually, I viewed videos depicting flames bursting through our house. Nonetheless, in the following days, I refused to accept the house was destroyed – before my brothers provided photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

When we reached our destination, I contacted the puppy provider. "Conflict has started," I said. "My mother and father are probably dead. Our neighborhood has been taken over by terrorists."

The ride back was spent searching for loved ones while also protecting my son from the terrible visuals that were emerging through networks.

The footage from that day exceeded all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me transported to the territory on a golf cart.

Individuals circulated social media clips that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured to Gaza. A woman I knew accompanied by her children – children I had played with – seized by attackers, the terror visible on her face paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It appeared endless for help to arrive our community. Then started the painful anticipation for information. In the evening, a lone picture circulated showing those who made it. My parents were not among them.

For days and weeks, as friends assisted investigators locate the missing, we scoured the internet for signs of those missing. We saw atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover footage of my father – no indication about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the circumstances grew more distinct. My senior mother and father – together with 74 others – were abducted from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, one in four of our community members were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mother emerged from captivity. Before departing, she turned and offered a handshake of the militant. "Shalom," she said. That moment – a simple human connection during unimaginable horror – was shared globally.

Over 500 days following, my father's remains were recovered. He died only kilometers from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and the recorded evidence remain with me. The two years since – our determined activism for the captives, Dad's terrible fate, the ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the primary pain.

My mother and father had always been advocates for peace. My mother still is, similar to many relatives. We know that hate and revenge won't provide any comfort from this tragedy.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. Over the months, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The young ones belonging to companions are still captive and the weight of what followed is overwhelming.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I describe remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed sharing our story to advocate for the captives, while mourning seems unaffordable we don't have – now, our efforts endures.

Not one word of this narrative represents justification for war. I've always been against this conflict from the beginning. The residents in the territory experienced pain beyond imagination.

I'm shocked by leadership actions, but I also insist that the attackers shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Because I know what they did during those hours. They failed the community – ensuring suffering for everyone because of their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story with those who defend what happened appears as dishonoring the lost. The people around me confronts growing prejudice, and our people back home has fought versus leadership consistently while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

From the border, the destruction of the territory can be seen and visceral. It horrifies me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that many seem to grant to the organizations makes me despair.