Two Long Years Following the 7th of October: When Hostility Became Trend – The Reason Compassion Is Our Best Hope

It started on a morning that seemed entirely routine. I rode with my husband and son to welcome our new dog. The world appeared steady – until reality shattered.

Checking my device, I noticed news concerning the frontier. I dialed my mum, anticipating her cheerful voice explaining she was safe. Silence. My dad couldn't be reached. Afterward, my brother answered – his speech immediately revealed the terrible truth even as he explained.

The Developing Nightmare

I've witnessed so many people on television whose existence were torn apart. Their eyes revealing they didn't understand what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of horror were building, and the debris remained chaotic.

My child glanced toward me from his screen. I shifted to reach out alone. Once we arrived the city, I would witness the horrific murder of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the militants who took over her home.

I recall believing: "None of our family could live through this."

At some point, I witnessed recordings showing fire bursting through our residence. Despite this, in the following days, I denied the building was gone – not until my family shared with me photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at the city, I phoned the puppy provider. "Conflict has begun," I explained. "My family are likely gone. Our neighborhood fell to by militants."

The return trip involved attempting to reach community members and at the same time protecting my son from the awful footage that were emerging through networks.

The scenes during those hours transcended any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son captured by armed militants. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of Gaza on a golf cart.

Friends sent digital recordings that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion also taken to Gaza. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – seized by attackers, the terror apparent in her expression stunning.

The Painful Period

It seemed to take forever for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then began the agonizing wait for information. Later that afternoon, a single image appeared of survivors. My mother and father weren't there.

During the following period, as friends helped forensic teams document losses, we searched the internet for signs of our loved ones. We saw brutality and violence. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no indication regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the situation emerged more fully. My aged family – along with 74 others – were abducted from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. During the violence, 25 percent of our community members were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my mother emerged from imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she looked back and shook hands of her captor. "Peace," she spoke. That gesture – a basic human interaction during unimaginable horror – was broadcast globally.

Five hundred and two days following, my parent's physical presence were recovered. He was murdered just two miles from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the initial trauma.

My mother and father were lifelong peace activists. Mom continues, as are most of my family. We know that hate and revenge cannot bring any comfort from our suffering.

I write this while crying. Over the months, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The children of my friends remain hostages with the burden of what followed feels heavy.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I term remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We typically telling our experience to fight for hostage release, though grieving remains a luxury we cannot afford – now, our efforts endures.

No part of this narrative serves as endorsement of violence. I've always been against the fighting since it started. The residents across the border experienced pain terribly.

I am horrified by political choices, while maintaining that the attackers shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Having seen their atrocities that day. They abandoned their own people – causing suffering for everyone due to their violent beliefs.

The Community Split

Sharing my story with those who defend the attackers' actions seems like failing the deceased. My community here faces rising hostility, and our people back home has fought against its government for two years and been betrayed repeatedly.

Looking over, the devastation across the frontier appears clearly and painful. It shocks me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that various individuals seem to grant to militant groups causes hopelessness.