Two Years Since the 7th of October: As Hostility Turned Into Trend – Why Humanity Is Our Sole Hope

It unfolded on a morning appearing completely ordinary. I rode with my husband and son to welcome our new dog. Life felt steady – then it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered reports about the border region. I tried reaching my mother, anticipating her reassuring tone telling me everything was fine. Nothing. My dad couldn't be reached. Next, my sibling picked up – his tone immediately revealed the terrible truth prior to he said anything.

The Emerging Horror

I've observed countless individuals in media reports whose lives were destroyed. Their expressions demonstrating they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of horror were overwhelming, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My child glanced toward me across the seat. I moved to contact people in private. By the time we arrived the city, I saw the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the militants who seized her home.

I recall believing: "Not a single of our friends would make it."

Eventually, I witnessed recordings showing fire consuming our residence. Even then, in the following days, I denied the building was gone – before my family sent me images and proof.

The Consequences

When we reached our destination, I called the dog breeder. "Hostilities has erupted," I explained. "My parents are likely gone. Our neighborhood was captured by attackers."

The return trip involved attempting to reach friends and family while also shielding my child from the horrific images that were emerging everywhere.

The scenes of that day were beyond all comprehension. A child from our community seized by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher transported to Gaza in a vehicle.

Friends sent digital recordings that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted into the territory. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – boys I knew well – captured by attackers, the fear apparent in her expression stunning.

The Long Wait

It appeared to take forever for the military to come the area. Then began the terrible uncertainty for news. In the evening, a single image circulated showing those who made it. My family were not among them.

Over many days, as friends helped forensic teams document losses, we scoured the internet for traces of those missing. We witnessed brutality and violence. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no clue about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Over time, the reality became clearer. My senior mother and father – along with 74 others – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my mother 85. Amid the terror, a quarter of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

Seventeen days later, my mother emerged from captivity. Prior to leaving, she looked back and grasped the hand of the militant. "Hello," she spoke. That moment – an elemental act of humanity within indescribable tragedy – was shared globally.

More than sixteen months afterward, Dad's body were returned. He was murdered just two miles from where we lived.

The Persistent Wound

These events and their documentation still terrorize me. The two years since – our determined activism to save hostages, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has compounded the initial trauma.

Both my parents were lifelong advocates for peace. My mother still is, similar to many relatives. We recognize that hate and revenge won't provide any comfort from our suffering.

I compose these words while crying. As time passes, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, rather than simpler. The children from my community continue imprisoned with the burden of the aftermath is overwhelming.

The Personal Struggle

Personally, I describe focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We typically sharing our story to campaign for hostage release, despite sorrow feels like privilege we cannot afford – now, our efforts continues.

Nothing of this narrative serves as endorsement of violence. I've always been against the fighting since it started. The residents across the border have suffered beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by leadership actions, yet emphasizing that the organization shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Because I know their actions that day. They betrayed their own people – causing pain for all because of their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience with people supporting the violence feels like betraying my dead. My local circle confronts unprecedented antisemitism, while my community there has struggled with the authorities for two years facing repeated disappointment again and again.

Across the fields, the destruction of the territory appears clearly and emotional. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that numerous people seem willing to provide to militant groups causes hopelessness.