🔗 Share this article

It unfolded that morning looking entirely routine. I rode with my husband and son to pick up a new puppy. Everything seemed predictable – then it all shifted.

Checking my device, I noticed updates about the border region. I called my mum, hoping for her reassuring tone saying she was safe. Nothing. My parent was also silent. Then, I reached my brother – his speech instantly communicated the devastating news even as he explained.

The Unfolding Tragedy

I've observed so many people in media reports whose existence had collapsed. Their eyes revealing they hadn't yet processed their loss. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of horror were overwhelming, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My son looked at me across the seat. I moved to contact people separately. Once we arrived our destination, I would witness the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the attackers who took over her house.

I remember thinking: "None of our family will survive."

At some point, I saw footage revealing blazes bursting through our residence. Nonetheless, in the following days, I denied the home had burned – before my family provided visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Getting to the station, I phoned the puppy provider. "Hostilities has begun," I explained. "My mother and father may not survive. My community was captured by attackers."

The return trip was spent searching for friends and family while also protecting my son from the horrific images that were emerging through networks.

The footage during those hours were beyond all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of Gaza using transportation.

People shared Telegram videos that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion also taken to Gaza. A woman I knew accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – captured by attackers, the horror visible on her face paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt interminable for help to arrive the area. Then commenced the painful anticipation for information. Later that afternoon, a single image emerged of survivors. My mother and father were not among them.

During the following period, as friends helped forensic teams document losses, we searched digital spaces for evidence of family members. We witnessed brutality and violence. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the situation emerged more fully. My aged family – together with 74 others – were taken hostage from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. In the chaos, 25 percent of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

Seventeen days later, my mother was released from imprisonment. Before departing, she looked back and grasped the hand of her captor. "Peace," she said. That image – a simple human connection within unimaginable horror – was transmitted worldwide.

Over 500 days later, Dad's body were recovered. He was murdered just two miles from where we lived.

The Continuing Trauma

These events and the recorded evidence remain with me. Everything that followed – our determined activism to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the primary pain.

Both my parents were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. My parent remains, similar to other loved ones. We recognize that hostility and vengeance don't offer even momentary relief from our suffering.

I share these thoughts while crying. With each day, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The children from my community remain hostages and the weight of what followed feels heavy.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I term dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We're used to sharing our story to campaign for freedom, despite sorrow remains a luxury we cannot afford – after 24 months, our work persists.

No part of this account represents support for conflict. I've always been against this conflict from day one. The people across the border experienced pain terribly.

I'm appalled by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the attackers cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Because I know what they did that day. They betrayed the population – causing suffering for everyone due to their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story with people supporting the attackers' actions seems like betraying my dead. The people around me experiences rising hostility, while my community there has fought with the authorities throughout this period and been betrayed multiple times.

Looking over, the destruction in Gaza appears clearly and visceral. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that various individuals seem willing to provide to the attackers creates discouragement.