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It began that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I rode accompanied by my family to welcome a new puppy. Life felt steady – then everything changed.

Opening my phone, I discovered updates about the border region. I called my mum, hoping for her calm response telling me everything was fine. No answer. My father couldn't be reached. Next, I reached my brother – his speech instantly communicated the awful reality before he explained.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've seen numerous faces through news coverage whose lives were torn apart. Their gaze demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their loss. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of horror were building, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My son looked at me across the seat. I moved to make calls alone. When we arrived the city, I saw the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the terrorists who took over her house.

I remember thinking: "None of our loved ones will survive."

Later, I saw footage showing fire bursting through our family home. Even then, for days afterward, I refused to accept the home had burned – until my family provided visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

When we reached the station, I called the puppy provider. "Hostilities has started," I told them. "My parents may not survive. Our neighborhood fell to by militants."

The return trip consisted of searching for community members while also guarding my young one from the horrific images that were emerging through networks.

The footage from that day exceeded any possible expectation. A child from our community taken by armed militants. Someone who taught me driven toward Gaza on a golf cart.

Friends sent social media clips that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion also taken across the border. A woman I knew and her little boys – children I had played with – captured by militants, the fear in her eyes devastating.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt endless for help to arrive the area. Then commenced the painful anticipation for updates. Later that afternoon, one photograph circulated depicting escapees. My parents were not among them.

Over many days, as friends helped forensic teams document losses, we combed the internet for signs of those missing. We saw torture and mutilation. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no clue about his final moments.

The Developing Reality

Gradually, the situation grew more distinct. My senior mother and father – as well as dozens more – were taken hostage from the community. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. During the violence, 25 percent of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

Seventeen days later, my mother left confinement. As she left, she glanced behind and shook hands of her captor. "Hello," she uttered. That moment – a basic human interaction within indescribable tragedy – was shared worldwide.

Over 500 days following, my father's remains were returned. He was killed only kilometers from where we lived.

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and the visual proof still terrorize me. The two years since – our desperate campaign for the captives, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has worsened the original wound.

My mother and father were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. My parent remains, similar to most of my family. We recognize that hostility and vengeance don't offer even momentary relief from the pain.

I write this amid sorrow. As time passes, talking about what happened grows harder, rather than simpler. The young ones of my friends remain hostages with the burden of the aftermath feels heavy.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I call remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We typically sharing our story to campaign for freedom, despite sorrow remains a luxury we cannot afford – and two years later, our efforts endures.

Nothing of this narrative is intended as support for conflict. I have consistently opposed hostilities from the beginning. The population across the border experienced pain unimaginably.

I'm shocked by leadership actions, while maintaining that the militants shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Because I know their actions that day. They failed their own people – causing tragedy on both sides through their deadly philosophy.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience with those who defend the attackers' actions appears as betraying my dead. My local circle experiences rising hostility, and our people back home has campaigned versus leadership consistently and been betrayed repeatedly.

Looking over, the devastation across the frontier appears clearly and emotional. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that numerous people seem to grant to the organizations creates discouragement.