🔗 Share this article

It started on a morning looking perfectly normal. I rode together with my loved ones to pick up a new puppy. Life felt predictable – then it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered updates about the border region. I dialed my parent, anticipating her calm response saying she was safe. Nothing. My parent didn't respond either. Afterward, I reached my brother – his tone instantly communicated the awful reality prior to he explained.

The Unfolding Tragedy

I've observed countless individuals on television whose worlds were torn apart. Their expressions revealing they didn't understand what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of violence were building, with the wreckage remained chaotic.

My son watched me over his laptop. I relocated to contact people in private. When we reached the city, I saw the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the militants who captured her house.

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

Eventually, I saw footage showing fire erupting from our house. Despite this, later on, I denied the building was gone – before my brothers sent me photographs and evidence.

The Fallout

When we reached the station, I contacted the kennel owner. "Hostilities has started," I said. "My parents are probably dead. Our neighborhood fell to by attackers."

The ride back involved attempting to reach loved ones while simultaneously protecting my son from the terrible visuals that circulated across platforms.

The scenes of that day exceeded anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher transported to Gaza on a golf cart.

Individuals circulated social media clips that seemed impossible. A senior community member similarly captured to Gaza. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – captured by militants, the fear in her eyes stunning.

The Long Wait

It seemed interminable for the military to come the area. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for information. In the evening, a single image appeared depicting escapees. My parents were missing.

Over many days, as community members worked with authorities identify victims, we combed online platforms for signs of those missing. We saw brutality and violence. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no evidence about his final moments.

The Developing Reality

Gradually, the situation grew more distinct. My elderly parents – as well as dozens more – were taken hostage from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, one in four of our neighbors were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my mum emerged from confinement. As she left, she turned and shook hands of the militant. "Shalom," she uttered. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity within unimaginable horror – was broadcast worldwide.

Over 500 days following, Dad's body were recovered. He was murdered just two miles from our home.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts for the captives, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has compounded the initial trauma.

Both my parents were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. My parent remains, like most of my family. We understand that animosity and retaliation don't offer even momentary relief from the pain.

I write this through tears. Over the months, discussing these events becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The children from my community remain hostages and the weight of the aftermath feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I call dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We typically sharing our story to campaign for hostage release, despite sorrow seems unaffordable we lack – and two years later, our campaign continues.

No part of this narrative serves as endorsement of violence. I've always been against the fighting from the beginning. The residents in the territory have suffered unimaginably.

I'm shocked by government decisions, while maintaining that the attackers are not peaceful protesters. Having seen what they did that day. They abandoned the community – causing suffering for everyone because of their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story with people supporting what happened appears as betraying my dead. My local circle experiences growing prejudice, while my community there has struggled with the authorities for two years while experiencing betrayal again and again.

From the border, the ruin of the territory appears clearly and painful. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that many seem to grant to the attackers causes hopelessness.