Two Years Following October 7th: When Hate Became Fashion – Why Humanity Remains Our Sole Hope

It unfolded that morning that seemed entirely routine. I rode together with my loved ones to collect our new dog. Everything seemed predictable – before everything changed.

Checking my device, I noticed updates concerning the frontier. I called my mum, hoping for her calm response telling me she was safe. No answer. My parent couldn't be reached. Next, I reached my brother – his voice already told me the devastating news before he explained.

The Unfolding Horror

I've witnessed countless individuals through news coverage whose lives were torn apart. Their expressions revealing they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of horror were overwhelming, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My son looked at me across the seat. I relocated to contact people alone. By the time we arrived the station, I would witness the brutal execution of a woman from my past – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the attackers who seized her home.

I remember thinking: "None of our loved ones will survive."

Later, I viewed videos revealing blazes bursting through our house. Nonetheless, later on, I couldn't believe the building was gone – not until my brothers shared with me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Getting to the city, I phoned the kennel owner. "Conflict has started," I explained. "My family are probably dead. Our neighborhood fell to by terrorists."

The journey home was spent attempting to reach community members and at the same time guarding my young one from the horrific images that were emerging through networks.

The scenes from that day transcended any possible expectation. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by armed militants. Someone who taught me taken in the direction of Gaza on a golf cart.

Friends sent digital recordings that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend also taken to Gaza. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the horror visible on her face stunning.

The Painful Period

It appeared to take forever for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then commenced the painful anticipation for news. In the evening, one photograph appeared showing those who made it. My family were missing.

For days and weeks, as friends assisted investigators locate the missing, we combed digital spaces for evidence of our loved ones. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. There was no footage of my father – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Over time, the situation emerged more fully. My aged family – as well as 74 others – became captives from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. Amid the terror, 25 percent of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

Seventeen days later, my mother emerged from confinement. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and shook hands of her captor. "Peace," she said. That image – an elemental act of humanity amid indescribable tragedy – was transmitted globally.

More than sixteen months later, my father's remains came back. He was murdered a short distance from our home.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and the visual proof continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our determined activism to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the ongoing war, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the initial trauma.

My family remained campaigners for reconciliation. My parent remains, like other loved ones. We know that hostility and vengeance don't offer any comfort from the pain.

I write this amid sorrow. As time passes, sharing the experience grows harder, not easier. The children from my community continue imprisoned with the burden of subsequent events is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I call focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed discussing events to campaign for freedom, despite sorrow remains a luxury we lack – now, our campaign continues.

Nothing of this narrative serves as justification for war. I've always been against the fighting from the beginning. The population across the border endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I am horrified by government decisions, but I also insist that the attackers shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Having seen what they did during those hours. They abandoned the population – causing suffering for everyone because of their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Sharing my story among individuals justifying the violence feels like dishonoring the lost. My local circle faces growing prejudice, while my community there has struggled against its government throughout this period while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

Across the fields, the destruction in Gaza appears clearly and emotional. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the moral carte blanche that various individuals seem willing to provide to the organizations creates discouragement.