Two Years Since October 7th: When Animosity Turned Into Trend – The Reason Humanity Stands as Our Sole Hope

It began during that morning that seemed perfectly normal. I journeyed accompanied by my family to pick up our new dog. Life felt predictable – until reality shattered.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered reports concerning the frontier. I tried reaching my mother, expecting her reassuring tone telling me she was safe. No answer. My dad was also silent. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his speech instantly communicated the awful reality even as he said anything.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've witnessed so many people in media reports whose lives were destroyed. Their expressions showing they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The torrent of horror were building, amid the destruction was still swirling.

My child watched me from his screen. I moved to reach out alone. By the time we arrived our destination, I saw the brutal execution of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the militants who seized her house.

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

Later, I viewed videos revealing blazes erupting from our family home. Despite this, in the following days, I refused to accept the building was gone – until my family sent me photographs and evidence.

The Fallout

Getting to the city, I phoned the dog breeder. "A war has started," I said. "My parents may not survive. My community was captured by terrorists."

The return trip consisted of trying to contact community members and at the same time protecting my son from the terrible visuals that circulated across platforms.

The footage during those hours exceeded anything we could imagine. A child from our community seized by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me taken in the direction of the border in a vehicle.

Friends sent social media clips that defied reality. A senior community member also taken across the border. My friend's daughter accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – captured by armed terrorists, the fear in her eyes devastating.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt endless for assistance to reach our community. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for information. Later that afternoon, a lone picture circulated depicting escapees. My family weren't there.

For days and weeks, as community members worked with authorities identify victims, we scoured the internet for traces of those missing. We encountered atrocities and horrors. There was no footage of my father – no clue about his final moments.

The Developing Reality

Gradually, the situation emerged more fully. My elderly parents – together with dozens more – became captives from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my mother 85. In the chaos, 25 percent of our community members were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother left confinement. As she left, she looked back and offered a handshake of the guard. "Shalom," she said. That gesture – a simple human connection within indescribable tragedy – was shared everywhere.

More than sixteen months following, my parent's physical presence were recovered. He died only kilometers from the kibbutz.

The Persistent Wound

These events and the visual proof remain with me. The two years since – our determined activism to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the initial trauma.

Both my parents remained advocates for peace. Mom continues, as are other loved ones. We recognize that animosity and retaliation cannot bring even momentary relief from this tragedy.

I share these thoughts through tears. Over the months, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The young ones of my friends remain hostages with the burden of what followed remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I describe remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We typically sharing our story to campaign for the captives, though grieving feels like privilege we cannot afford – now, our campaign persists.

No part of this story serves as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed hostilities from day one. The population in the territory experienced pain unimaginably.

I am horrified by leadership actions, but I also insist that the militants are not innocent activists. Since I witnessed their actions that day. They abandoned the community – ensuring suffering for everyone because of their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story with people supporting the attackers' actions appears as dishonoring the lost. My community here faces growing prejudice, and our people back home has campaigned versus leadership throughout this period facing repeated disappointment again and again.

From the border, the devastation in Gaza is visible and emotional. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that many appear to offer to the attackers causes hopelessness.