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It started on a morning looking entirely routine. I journeyed with my husband and son to welcome a new puppy. Everything seemed secure – before everything changed.

Glancing at my screen, I saw reports concerning the frontier. I called my mum, hoping for her cheerful voice saying everything was fine. Nothing. My father was also silent. Then, my brother answered – his tone instantly communicated the devastating news even as he said anything.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've seen numerous faces through news coverage whose existence had collapsed. Their eyes revealing they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of violence were building, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My child glanced toward me over his laptop. I moved to reach out separately. When we arrived our destination, I would witness the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – shown in real-time by the militants who took over her house.

I thought to myself: "None of our loved ones would make it."

Later, I witnessed recordings depicting flames erupting from our family home. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I refused to accept the house was destroyed – before my siblings shared with me images and proof.

The Aftermath

When we reached our destination, I called the puppy provider. "A war has begun," I explained. "My parents are probably dead. Our neighborhood has been taken over by militants."

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

The footage during those hours were beyond all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son seized by armed militants. My former educator transported to Gaza using transportation.

People shared social media clips that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion also taken into the territory. My friend's daughter and her little boys – boys I knew well – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the terror apparent in her expression stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It seemed interminable for assistance to reach our community. Then started the agonizing wait for updates. As time passed, a lone picture emerged showing those who made it. My mother and father were missing.

Over many days, as community members assisted investigators locate the missing, we combed the internet for evidence of those missing. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. We never found footage of my father – no indication regarding his experience.

The Emerging Picture

Over time, the circumstances emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – as well as numerous community members – were abducted from the community. My parent was in his eighties, my other parent was elderly. In the chaos, 25 percent of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

Seventeen days later, my mum emerged from confinement. Prior to leaving, she turned and shook hands of the militant. "Peace," she uttered. That gesture – a simple human connection amid indescribable tragedy – was shared globally.

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

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the recorded evidence remain with me. The two years since – our determined activism to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has intensified the original wound.

My mother and father remained advocates for peace. My mother still is, similar to other loved ones. We understand that hostility and vengeance won't provide even momentary relief from the pain.

I compose these words while crying. Over the months, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The children from my community are still captive with the burden of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I describe dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed telling our experience to campaign for the captives, despite sorrow feels like privilege we don't have – after 24 months, our efforts endures.

No part of this story is intended as support for conflict. I have consistently opposed hostilities since it started. The population in the territory endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I am horrified by government decisions, but I also insist that the militants cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Because I know their actions that day. They failed the population – ensuring tragedy on both sides because of their deadly philosophy.

The Community Split

Sharing my story among individuals justifying the violence feels like failing the deceased. My local circle confronts unprecedented antisemitism, while my community there has campaigned against its government throughout this period while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

Looking over, the ruin in Gaza is visible and visceral. It shocks me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that many seem to grant to the organizations creates discouragement.