24 Months After the 7th of October: When Hostility Turned Into Fashion – The Reason Compassion Is Our Only Hope

It unfolded during that morning looking perfectly normal. I rode accompanied by my family to pick up our new dog. Everything seemed predictable – then reality shattered.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed reports concerning the frontier. I tried reaching my parent, expecting her cheerful voice explaining everything was fine. Silence. My parent didn't respond either. Then, my brother answered – his speech already told me the devastating news even as he spoke.

The Developing Tragedy

I've witnessed so many people through news coverage whose existence were destroyed. Their expressions revealing they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of violence were overwhelming, with the wreckage remained chaotic.

My young one looked at me across the seat. I relocated to contact people separately. When we got to the city, I encountered the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the attackers who captured her residence.

I thought to myself: "None of our friends will survive."

At some point, I witnessed recordings depicting flames bursting through our house. Even then, in the following days, I couldn't believe the building was gone – until my family sent me images and proof.

The Consequences

Getting to our destination, I called the puppy provider. "A war has erupted," I explained. "My family are likely gone. My community has been taken over by attackers."

The return trip involved searching for friends and family while simultaneously protecting my son from the terrible visuals that spread everywhere.

The scenes from that day transcended anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by several attackers. Someone who taught me transported to the territory on a golf cart.

Individuals circulated social media clips that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured to Gaza. A young mother with her two small sons – children I had played with – seized by attackers, the fear visible on her face stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt interminable for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then commenced the agonizing wait for updates. In the evening, a lone picture emerged showing those who made it. My family weren't there.

For days and weeks, while neighbors worked with authorities document losses, we searched online platforms for traces of our loved ones. We saw brutality and violence. We never found footage of my father – no indication about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Eventually, the reality became clearer. My elderly parents – along with numerous community members – were abducted from the community. My father was 83, Mom was 85. In the chaos, a quarter of our neighbors were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my parent was released from captivity. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and shook hands of her captor. "Hello," she uttered. That moment – a basic human interaction amid unimaginable horror – was broadcast everywhere.

Five hundred and two days following, my parent's physical presence came back. He was murdered just two miles from our home.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the visual proof remain with me. Everything that followed – our determined activism for the captives, Dad's terrible fate, the ongoing war, the devastation in Gaza – has compounded the original wound.

My mother and father were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, similar to most of my family. We recognize that animosity and retaliation don't offer the slightest solace from the pain.

I compose these words amid sorrow. With each day, talking about what happened grows harder, instead of improving. The young ones of my friends are still captive with the burden of the aftermath feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I call dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We typically telling our experience to advocate for freedom, despite sorrow feels like privilege we don't have – after 24 months, our efforts persists.

Nothing of this narrative serves as justification for war. I've always been against this conflict from day one. The people in the territory experienced pain unimaginably.

I am horrified by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the organization cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed what they did on October 7th. They abandoned the community – causing tragedy on both sides because of their violent beliefs.

The Social Divide

Discussing my experience with people supporting what happened seems like betraying my dead. My community here confronts rising hostility, while my community there has campaigned against its government throughout this period facing repeated disappointment again and again.

Across the fields, the destruction of the territory can be seen and emotional. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that numerous people seem to grant to the attackers makes me despair.