🔗 Share this article

It started during that morning looking completely ordinary. I journeyed accompanied by my family to welcome our new dog. Life felt steady – then reality shattered.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered news from the border. I dialed my parent, hoping for her cheerful voice saying everything was fine. Silence. My father was also silent. Next, my brother answered – his speech instantly communicated the awful reality prior to he spoke.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've observed so many people in media reports whose worlds were destroyed. Their gaze demonstrating they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Now it was me. The torrent of horror were overwhelming, amid the destruction was still swirling.

My young one glanced toward me across the seat. I shifted to contact people alone. When we arrived our destination, I encountered the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the terrorists who took over her residence.

I remember thinking: "Not a single of our loved ones would make it."

Later, I saw footage revealing blazes consuming our family home. Despite this, for days afterward, I refused to accept the home had burned – before my family provided visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at the city, I contacted the puppy provider. "A war has started," I explained. "My family are probably dead. My community fell to by attackers."

The journey home was spent searching for community members and at the same time protecting my son from the terrible visuals that circulated through networks.

The scenes of that day transcended anything we could imagine. A child from our community seized by several attackers. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of the border in a vehicle.

Friends sent digital recordings that seemed impossible. A senior community member similarly captured into the territory. A young mother with her two small sons – boys I knew well – captured by militants, the fear apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It appeared interminable for help to arrive the area. Then began the agonizing wait for updates. In the evening, a single image appeared of survivors. My parents were not among them.

Over many days, as friends assisted investigators identify victims, we searched online platforms for evidence of our loved ones. We saw torture and mutilation. We never found footage of my father – no indication regarding his experience.

The Emerging Picture

Over time, the reality emerged more fully. My elderly parents – as well as 74 others – were taken hostage from the community. My parent was in his eighties, my other parent was elderly. In the chaos, a quarter of the residents were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my mum was released from confinement. Prior to leaving, she looked back and grasped the hand of her captor. "Hello," she spoke. That image – a simple human connection during indescribable tragedy – was shared globally.

More than sixteen months later, my parent's physical presence came back. He was murdered a short distance from where we lived.

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and the recorded evidence still terrorize me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign to save hostages, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the original wound.

My mother and father had always been campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, similar to most of my family. We understand that hostility and vengeance won't provide any comfort from our suffering.

I compose these words while crying. Over the months, discussing these events grows harder, rather than simpler. The young ones of my friends are still captive along with the pressure of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I describe dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed discussing events to fight for freedom, while mourning feels like privilege we don't have – now, our efforts continues.

Not one word of this narrative is intended as support for conflict. I have consistently opposed hostilities from day one. The people across the border have suffered terribly.

I am horrified by government decisions, but I also insist that the organization cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed their actions during those hours. They abandoned their own people – causing pain for all because of their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth with those who defend the violence feels like failing the deceased. My local circle confronts unprecedented antisemitism, and our people back home has fought against its government consistently facing repeated disappointment again and again.

Across the fields, the destruction across the frontier can be seen and emotional. It shocks me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that various individuals appear to offer to militant groups makes me despair.