24 Months After October 7th: As Animosity Turned Into Fashion – Why Humanity Stands as Our Only Hope

It unfolded on a morning appearing completely ordinary. I rode accompanied by my family to pick up a new puppy. The world appeared secure – then reality shattered.

Opening my phone, I noticed news from the border. I called my mum, hoping for her reassuring tone telling me she was safe. Nothing. My parent was also silent. Afterward, my brother answered – his speech immediately revealed the terrible truth before he explained.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've witnessed countless individuals in media reports whose lives had collapsed. Their expressions revealing they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of horror were rising, amid the destruction was still swirling.

My young one glanced toward me over his laptop. I relocated to contact people in private. When we arrived the station, I saw the horrific murder of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the militants who took over her residence.

I thought to myself: "Not a single of our family could live through this."

At some point, I saw footage revealing blazes consuming our residence. Despite this, later on, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – before my brothers provided images and proof.

The Consequences

Upon arriving at the city, I called the kennel owner. "Conflict has erupted," I explained. "My mother and father are likely gone. Our neighborhood was captured by attackers."

The ride back involved trying to contact loved ones while simultaneously shielding my child from the terrible visuals that spread across platforms.

The scenes during those hours transcended any possible expectation. A child from our community seized by armed militants. Someone who taught me driven toward Gaza on a golf cart.

Individuals circulated social media clips that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured to Gaza. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by attackers, the terror in her eyes devastating.

The Painful Period

It felt to take forever for help to arrive the area. Then started the agonizing wait for updates. As time passed, one photograph circulated depicting escapees. My family were not among them.

For days and weeks, as community members assisted investigators locate the missing, we scoured digital spaces for traces of our loved ones. We witnessed torture and mutilation. There was no recordings showing my parent – no clue regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the reality emerged more fully. My elderly parents – together with 74 others – became captives from their home. My father was 83, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, a quarter of the residents were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my mother left captivity. Before departing, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of her captor. "Peace," she spoke. That image – a basic human interaction amid unspeakable violence – was transmitted globally.

Five hundred and two days afterward, Dad's body were recovered. He died just two miles from where we lived.

The Persistent Wound

These events and the recorded evidence remain with me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign for the captives, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the original wound.

Both my parents remained peace activists. My parent remains, as are most of my family. We understand that hostility and vengeance cannot bring any comfort from the pain.

I share these thoughts through tears. With each day, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, instead of improving. The kids belonging to companions remain hostages and the weight of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I term dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We're used to discussing events to fight for freedom, despite sorrow remains a luxury we cannot afford – and two years later, our work endures.

No part of this account is intended as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed hostilities from day one. The people in the territory experienced pain beyond imagination.

I am horrified by government decisions, but I also insist that the militants shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Because I know what they did during those hours. They abandoned the population – ensuring pain for all through their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth among individuals justifying what happened appears as dishonoring the lost. The people around me confronts growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled with the authorities throughout this period while experiencing betrayal repeatedly.

From the border, the ruin of the territory is visible and visceral. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that many seem willing to provide to the attackers makes me despair.