Two Long Years After the 7th of October: As Hate Became Fashion – The Reason Compassion Remains Our Sole Hope

It unfolded that morning that seemed perfectly normal. I was traveling with my husband and son to pick up a furry companion. The world appeared predictable – then reality shattered.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered news from the border. I dialed my mother, expecting her reassuring tone saying they were secure. Nothing. My father couldn't be reached. Next, my brother answered – his tone immediately revealed the terrible truth even as he explained.

The Unfolding Horror

I've seen so many people in media reports whose worlds were torn apart. Their expressions revealing they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The deluge of violence were rising, and the debris hadn't settled.

My son glanced toward me from his screen. I moved to make calls separately. Once we reached our destination, I saw the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the terrorists who captured her house.

I remember thinking: "Not one of our friends will survive."

At some point, I viewed videos showing fire consuming our family home. Despite this, later on, I couldn't believe the building was gone – before my siblings shared with me images and proof.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at the city, I contacted the dog breeder. "Conflict has erupted," I said. "My mother and father are probably dead. Our kibbutz has been taken over by terrorists."

The return trip consisted of trying to contact loved ones while also shielding my child from the horrific images that were emerging across platforms.

The images during those hours exceeded all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son taken by several attackers. Someone who taught me taken in the direction of Gaza using transportation.

Friends sent digital recordings that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured to Gaza. A woman I knew accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – captured by armed terrorists, the horror apparent in her expression stunning.

The Long Wait

It felt interminable for assistance to reach the area. Then started the terrible uncertainty for information. In the evening, a single image emerged depicting escapees. My family were not among them.

Over many days, as community members helped forensic teams identify victims, we combed online platforms for signs of those missing. We witnessed torture and mutilation. We didn't discover footage of my father – no indication regarding his experience.

The Emerging Picture

Eventually, the situation emerged more fully. My elderly parents – along with numerous community members – were taken hostage from their home. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. During the violence, a quarter of the residents were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my parent left confinement. Prior to leaving, she looked back and shook hands of the guard. "Hello," she uttered. That moment – an elemental act of humanity during indescribable tragedy – was shared worldwide.

Over 500 days afterward, my father's remains were recovered. He died a short distance from our home.

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and the visual proof still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has compounded the primary pain.

Both my parents had always been peace activists. My parent remains, as are most of my family. We know that hate and revenge cannot bring any comfort from our suffering.

I write this through tears. As time passes, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The children of my friends remain hostages with the burden of what followed is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I call remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed telling our experience to campaign for hostage release, despite sorrow seems unaffordable we don't have – after 24 months, our work endures.

Nothing of this narrative serves as support for conflict. I continuously rejected 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 are not benign resistance fighters. Having seen their actions that day. They abandoned the community – creating pain for all through their violent beliefs.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience with people supporting the violence feels like dishonoring the lost. The people around me faces rising hostility, and our people back home has campaigned versus leadership for two years and been betrayed again and again.

Across the fields, the ruin across the frontier is visible and visceral. It appalls me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that many seem to grant to the organizations creates discouragement.