Two Years After that October Day: When Hate Turned Into Trend – Why Humanity Remains Our Sole Hope

It started on a morning that seemed perfectly normal. I was traveling with my husband and son to collect a furry companion. The world appeared secure – until it all shifted.

Checking my device, I saw updates from the border. I called my mum, anticipating her cheerful voice telling me everything was fine. Nothing. My father couldn't be reached. Next, my brother answered – his tone immediately revealed the awful reality before he said anything.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've witnessed so many people in media reports whose existence were destroyed. Their gaze demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their loss. Suddenly it was us. The torrent of tragedy were rising, with the wreckage was still swirling.

My son watched me from his screen. I shifted to contact people alone. Once we arrived the city, I saw the terrible killing of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the terrorists who captured her house.

I remember thinking: "Not one of our family would make it."

At some point, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes bursting through our house. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I refused to accept the house was destroyed – not until my brothers sent me images and proof.

The Fallout

When we reached our destination, I contacted the puppy provider. "Conflict has erupted," I said. "My mother and father may not survive. Our neighborhood fell to by terrorists."

The return trip consisted of searching for friends and family and at the same time guarding my young one from the horrific images that circulated everywhere.

The footage during those hours exceeded all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by several attackers. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of Gaza using transportation.

Individuals circulated digital recordings appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend also taken to Gaza. My friend's daughter and her little boys – boys I knew well – captured by militants, the fear apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Agonizing Delay

It seemed to take forever for help to arrive the area. Then started the agonizing wait for updates. As time passed, a single image appeared depicting escapees. My parents were missing.

For days and weeks, as community members helped forensic teams locate the missing, we scoured the internet for evidence of our loved ones. We encountered atrocities and horrors. There was no footage of my father – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Over time, the reality grew more distinct. My aged family – along with dozens more – became captives from the community. My father was 83, my other parent was elderly. Amid the terror, a quarter of our community members were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent emerged from imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and shook hands of her captor. "Hello," she uttered. That image – a basic human interaction during unspeakable violence – was broadcast everywhere.

More than sixteen months following, my father's remains were recovered. He was murdered a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and their documentation remain with me. Everything that followed – our determined activism to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the primary pain.

My mother and father remained advocates for peace. My mother still is, as are many relatives. We recognize that hate and revenge won't provide even momentary relief from the pain.

I write this while crying. With each day, sharing the experience grows harder, instead of improving. The children from my community are still captive and the weight of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I call focusing on the trauma "immersed in suffering". We typically telling our experience to advocate for the captives, despite sorrow feels like privilege we lack – after 24 months, our campaign persists.

Nothing of this account serves as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed the fighting from the beginning. The population of Gaza endured tragedy terribly.

I'm appalled by political choices, yet emphasizing that the militants shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Because I know what they did on October 7th. They abandoned the community – ensuring tragedy on both sides because of their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying the violence appears as failing the deceased. The people around me faces unprecedented antisemitism, while my community there has fought versus leadership throughout this period facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

Across the fields, the destruction of the territory appears clearly and painful. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that various individuals seem to grant to the organizations causes hopelessness.