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It started during that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I journeyed accompanied by my family to welcome a furry companion. Everything seemed steady – until it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I noticed news from the border. I dialed my mother, expecting her calm response explaining they were secure. Nothing. My father was also silent. Then, my sibling picked up – his tone instantly communicated the awful reality before he spoke.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've observed so many people through news coverage whose lives were torn apart. Their eyes revealing they hadn't yet processed their loss. Then it became our turn. The torrent of horror were overwhelming, and the debris hadn't settled.

My child looked at me over his laptop. I shifted to make calls separately. By the time we reached our destination, I would witness the terrible killing of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the terrorists who took over her home.

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

At some point, I viewed videos depicting flames erupting from our family home. Despite this, later on, I denied the building was gone – until my siblings provided visual confirmation.

The Fallout

When we reached the station, I called the puppy provider. "Conflict has started," I said. "My mother and father may not survive. Our neighborhood fell to by militants."

The journey home was spent attempting to reach loved ones while simultaneously guarding my young one from the horrific images that spread across platforms.

The footage of that day transcended any possible expectation. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by armed militants. Someone who taught me transported to Gaza in a vehicle.

People shared digital recordings appearing unbelievable. My mother's elderly companion also taken to Gaza. A woman I knew accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – captured by armed terrorists, the horror apparent in her expression stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It seemed interminable for the military to come our community. Then began the painful anticipation for news. Later that afternoon, a lone picture circulated showing those who made it. My family were missing.

During the following period, while neighbors assisted investigators identify victims, we combed digital spaces for signs of family members. We encountered brutality and violence. We never found footage of my father – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the situation became clearer. My elderly parents – as well as dozens more – became captives from the community. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. In the chaos, a quarter of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my parent was released from imprisonment. As she left, she turned and offered a handshake of the militant. "Shalom," she spoke. That gesture – a simple human connection amid unimaginable horror – was broadcast worldwide.

More than sixteen months later, my father's remains were recovered. He was murdered a short distance from our home.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and the visual proof remain with me. The two years since – our urgent efforts to save hostages, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has intensified the original wound.

Both my parents had always been campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, as are many relatives. We know that hostility and vengeance won't provide even momentary relief from the pain.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. With each day, sharing the experience grows harder, instead of improving. The children from my community remain hostages with the burden of subsequent events is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I term dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We're used to discussing events to advocate for freedom, despite sorrow feels like privilege we don't have – and two years later, our campaign persists.

Not one word of this narrative serves as justification for war. I have consistently opposed the fighting since it started. The residents of Gaza endured tragedy unimaginably.

I'm shocked by leadership actions, while maintaining that the attackers are not benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed their atrocities during those hours. They failed their own people – ensuring suffering for everyone through their deadly philosophy.

The Community Split

Telling my truth with those who defend the attackers' actions appears as failing the deceased. My community here faces unprecedented antisemitism, and our people back home has fought versus leadership consistently facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

Across the fields, the destruction of the territory is visible and visceral. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that various individuals seem willing to provide to militant groups creates discouragement.