Two Long Years Following that October Day: When Hate Became Trend – The Reason Compassion Remains Our Only Hope

It started on a morning that seemed completely ordinary. I journeyed accompanied by my family to welcome a furry companion. Life felt secure – before reality shattered.

Checking my device, I discovered updates about the border region. I dialed my mother, anticipating her calm response explaining everything was fine. Nothing. My dad couldn't be reached. Afterward, my brother answered – his speech already told me the terrible truth before he explained.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've seen countless individuals on television whose worlds were destroyed. Their gaze revealing they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of violence were overwhelming, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My son watched me from his screen. I shifted to make calls separately. Once we got to the city, I would witness the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the attackers who took over her residence.

I remember thinking: "None of our friends could live through this."

At some point, I witnessed recordings showing fire erupting from our house. Despite this, later on, I denied the building was gone – not until my siblings provided visual confirmation.

The Consequences

When we reached the city, I contacted the puppy provider. "Hostilities has begun," I explained. "My mother and father may not survive. Our kibbutz has been taken over by attackers."

The return trip was spent searching for friends and family and at the same time shielding my child from the terrible visuals that were emerging everywhere.

The footage from that day exceeded any possible expectation. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by armed militants. Someone who taught me transported to the border on a golf cart.

Friends sent Telegram videos that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured into the territory. A woman I knew with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – seized by attackers, the fear visible on her face stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It seemed interminable for the military to come the kibbutz. Then began the terrible uncertainty for information. As time passed, one photograph appeared depicting escapees. My parents weren't there.

During the following period, as friends worked with authorities identify victims, we combed digital spaces for evidence of family members. We witnessed brutality and violence. There was no footage of my father – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the circumstances became clearer. My elderly parents – together with 74 others – were taken hostage from their home. My parent was in his eighties, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, a quarter of our neighbors were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mother was released from imprisonment. Before departing, she looked back and shook hands of the militant. "Hello," she said. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity amid unspeakable violence – was broadcast everywhere.

Over 500 days afterward, my parent's physical presence were returned. He was killed only kilometers from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These events and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has intensified the initial trauma.

Both my parents had always been advocates for peace. My parent remains, similar to most of my family. We understand that hostility and vengeance cannot bring the slightest solace from this tragedy.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. As time passes, discussing these events becomes more difficult, not easier. The young ones from my community are still captive with the burden of subsequent events is overwhelming.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I describe remembering what happened "immersed in suffering". We've become accustomed telling our experience to fight for freedom, while mourning feels like privilege we don't have – now, our work continues.

Nothing of this narrative serves as justification for war. I've always been against hostilities since it started. The people across the border have suffered terribly.

I'm appalled by political choices, but I also insist that the attackers cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Because I know their atrocities on October 7th. They abandoned the population – causing tragedy on both sides because of their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth with people supporting the violence feels like betraying my dead. My community here faces rising hostility, and our people back home has fought against its government consistently and been betrayed multiple times.

From the border, the destruction across the frontier is visible and painful. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that many seem willing to provide to the attackers creates discouragement.