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It began during that morning appearing completely ordinary. I rode together with my loved ones to welcome a furry companion. Everything seemed steady – until it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed news about the border region. I called my mum, anticipating her reassuring tone saying they were secure. No answer. My dad couldn't be reached. Afterward, I reached my brother – his voice already told me the terrible truth prior to he explained.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've witnessed countless individuals in media reports whose worlds were torn apart. Their expressions showing they couldn't comprehend their loss. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of horror were rising, and the debris remained chaotic.

My young one glanced toward me over his laptop. I relocated to contact people separately. By the time we arrived the city, I encountered the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the militants who took over her home.

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

Later, I viewed videos revealing blazes erupting from our house. Even then, in the following days, I refused to accept the house was destroyed – until my family shared with me visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

When we reached our destination, I phoned the puppy provider. "Conflict has erupted," I explained. "My parents may not survive. My community was captured by terrorists."

The ride back was spent searching for loved ones while also protecting my son from the awful footage that circulated across platforms.

The scenes during those hours transcended any possible expectation. A child from our community taken by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of the border in a vehicle.

Friends sent digital recordings that seemed impossible. A senior community member likewise abducted across the border. A young mother and her little boys – boys I knew well – captured by attackers, the horror apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It appeared to take forever for help to arrive the area. Then began the terrible uncertainty for information. As time passed, a single image circulated showing those who made it. My parents weren't there.

Over many days, while neighbors assisted investigators locate the missing, we combed digital spaces for evidence of those missing. We witnessed torture and mutilation. There was no footage of my father – no indication regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Over time, the reality became clearer. My senior mother and father – along with 74 others – became captives from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. Amid the terror, a quarter of the residents lost their lives or freedom.

Seventeen days later, my parent emerged from imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she looked back and offered a handshake of the guard. "Hello," she uttered. That image – a simple human connection during indescribable tragedy – was shared worldwide.

More than sixteen months following, Dad's body came back. He was killed a short distance from where we lived.

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and the recorded evidence remain with me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts to save hostages, my parent's awful death, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the initial trauma.

My mother and father had always been campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, as are many relatives. We understand that hostility and vengeance won't provide any comfort from the pain.

I share these thoughts through tears. With each day, sharing the experience grows harder, not easier. The young ones belonging to companions continue imprisoned and the weight of what followed remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I term focusing on the trauma "immersed in suffering". We've become accustomed telling our experience to fight for freedom, though grieving feels like privilege we lack – and two years later, our work continues.

Nothing of this narrative is intended as justification for war. I continuously rejected this conflict from day one. The people across the border endured tragedy unimaginably.

I'm shocked by leadership actions, but I also insist that the organization cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Because I know their actions on October 7th. They betrayed the community – causing pain for all through their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience with people supporting the violence seems like betraying my dead. My local circle faces rising hostility, and our people back home has campaigned versus leadership consistently while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

Across the fields, the ruin of the territory can be seen and visceral. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that various individuals seem willing to provide to militant groups creates discouragement.