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It started that morning that seemed entirely routine. I was traveling with my husband and son to collect our new dog. Everything seemed predictable – before reality shattered.

Checking my device, I discovered updates from the border. I tried reaching my mum, anticipating her cheerful voice telling me she was safe. Nothing. My dad couldn't be reached. Next, my brother answered – his voice immediately revealed the terrible truth even as he explained.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've witnessed countless individuals through news coverage whose lives were torn apart. Their eyes revealing they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of violence were building, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My child watched me across the seat. I moved to reach out alone. By the time we reached our destination, I saw the terrible killing of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the terrorists who seized her residence.

I recall believing: "Not a single of our loved ones will survive."

Later, I witnessed recordings depicting flames consuming our house. Even then, later on, I denied the home had burned – before my family sent me images and proof.

The Fallout

When we reached the city, I contacted the puppy provider. "Hostilities has erupted," I told them. "My family may not survive. Our neighborhood fell to by terrorists."

The ride back was spent attempting to reach community members while simultaneously protecting my son from the terrible visuals that spread across platforms.

The images from that day exceeded anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by multiple terrorists. My former educator driven toward Gaza in a vehicle.

People shared Telegram videos that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion also taken across the border. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – children I had played with – captured by attackers, the horror in her eyes stunning.

The Painful Period

It seemed interminable for assistance to reach our community. Then began the agonizing wait for information. As time passed, one photograph circulated of survivors. My family weren't there.

For days and weeks, while neighbors assisted investigators locate the missing, we searched digital spaces for signs of our loved ones. We saw torture and mutilation. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the reality emerged more fully. My elderly parents – along with numerous community members – became captives from the community. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. In the chaos, one in four of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my parent emerged from captivity. As she left, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of her captor. "Hello," she spoke. That image – an elemental act of humanity within unimaginable horror – was broadcast globally.

Over 500 days following, my father's remains were returned. He was killed a short distance from our home.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and their documentation still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the ongoing war, the devastation in Gaza – has compounded the original wound.

Both my parents were lifelong peace activists. My parent remains, similar to other loved ones. We understand that hate and revenge cannot bring any comfort from this tragedy.

I compose these words through tears. With each day, discussing these events becomes more difficult, not easier. The kids of my friends are still captive and the weight of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I describe remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed telling our experience to campaign for freedom, though grieving remains a luxury we lack – and two years later, our efforts continues.

Not one word of this account represents justification for war. I continuously rejected hostilities from day one. The people across the border experienced pain beyond imagination.

I am horrified by leadership actions, while maintaining that the militants are not innocent activists. Because I know their atrocities during those hours. They failed the population – causing suffering for everyone due to their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying the violence seems like dishonoring the lost. The people around me experiences growing prejudice, and our people back home has fought versus leadership consistently while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

Across the fields, the ruin across the frontier can be seen and visceral. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that numerous people seem to grant to the organizations creates discouragement.