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It started on a morning that seemed perfectly normal. I was traveling with my husband and son to welcome our new dog. Life felt predictable – until it all shifted.

Checking my device, I noticed updates about the border region. I called my parent, anticipating her calm response saying they were secure. Silence. My parent didn't respond either. Next, my sibling picked up – his tone instantly communicated the terrible truth even as he said anything.

The Developing Tragedy

I've witnessed numerous faces through news coverage whose existence were torn apart. Their expressions showing they didn't understand what they'd lost. Now it was me. The deluge of tragedy were building, with the wreckage remained chaotic.

My child watched me from his screen. I relocated to reach out separately. When we arrived the station, I saw the terrible killing of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the militants who seized her residence.

I thought to myself: "None of our family will survive."

Later, I viewed videos revealing blazes consuming our house. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – until my brothers sent me images and proof.

The Consequences

Getting to the city, I phoned the dog breeder. "Hostilities has erupted," I explained. "My parents may not survive. Our neighborhood has been taken over by militants."

The ride back involved searching for loved ones and at the same time shielding my child from the horrific images that spread everywhere.

The images from that day transcended anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by armed militants. Someone who taught me taken in the direction of Gaza using transportation.

Friends sent Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. A senior community member similarly captured across the border. A woman I knew accompanied by her children – children I had played with – being rounded up by militants, the horror apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It felt endless for assistance to reach our community. Then started the agonizing wait for news. Later that afternoon, one photograph appeared showing those who made it. My mother and father were missing.

During the following period, as community members assisted investigators locate the missing, we scoured the internet for traces of family members. We saw atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no evidence about his final moments.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the situation emerged more fully. My aged family – along with 74 others – became captives from their home. My parent was in his eighties, my other parent was elderly. In the chaos, a quarter of our community members were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent emerged from confinement. As she left, she glanced behind and shook hands of the militant. "Hello," she uttered. That moment – a simple human connection amid unspeakable violence – was broadcast everywhere.

Five hundred and two days later, my parent's physical presence came back. He was murdered only kilometers from our home.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and the visual proof still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to save hostages, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the primary pain.

Both my parents remained campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, similar to other loved ones. We understand that animosity and retaliation won't provide even momentary relief from the pain.

I compose these words amid sorrow. As time passes, sharing the experience grows harder, not easier. The kids from my community continue imprisoned and the weight of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I term focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We typically telling our experience to campaign for hostage release, though grieving feels like privilege we lack – after 24 months, our efforts endures.

Not one word of this narrative represents endorsement of violence. I've always been against hostilities from the beginning. The population of Gaza endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by political choices, yet emphasizing that the attackers cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Because I know what they did that day. They failed the population – ensuring tragedy on both sides due to their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience with people supporting the attackers' actions seems like betraying my dead. The people around me confronts unprecedented antisemitism, while my community there has fought versus leadership for two years and been betrayed again and again.

Looking over, the ruin in Gaza is visible and emotional. It shocks me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that numerous people seem willing to provide to the organizations creates discouragement.