Two Years After the 7th of October: When Hate Became The Norm – The Reason Humanity Remains Our Only Hope

It unfolded on a morning looking completely ordinary. I journeyed together with my loved ones to welcome a furry companion. Life felt predictable – until everything changed.

Glancing at my screen, I saw reports from the border. I dialed my mother, anticipating her calm response telling me she was safe. Nothing. My father didn't respond either. Next, I reached my brother – his tone immediately revealed the terrible truth prior to he explained.

The Developing Tragedy

I've seen numerous faces through news coverage whose existence were destroyed. Their expressions showing they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of tragedy were rising, and the debris hadn't settled.

My young one looked at me across the seat. I shifted to reach out alone. Once we arrived the city, I saw the terrible killing of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the militants who seized her house.

I thought to myself: "Not one of our loved ones would make it."

Later, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes erupting from our house. Despite this, later on, I refused to accept the building was gone – until my siblings provided photographs and evidence.

The Consequences

When we reached the city, I phoned the kennel owner. "A war has started," I said. "My parents may not survive. Our kibbutz fell to by terrorists."

The journey home involved searching for community members while simultaneously guarding my young one from the horrific images that spread through networks.

The footage of that day were beyond all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son taken by armed militants. Someone who taught me taken in the direction of Gaza on a golf cart.

People shared social media clips appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured into the territory. A young mother with her two small sons – boys I knew well – being rounded up by militants, the fear in her eyes devastating.

The Agonizing Delay

It seemed endless for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then began the painful anticipation for news. In the evening, a single image appeared of survivors. My parents were not among them.

For days and weeks, while neighbors assisted investigators document losses, we combed the internet for signs of our loved ones. We saw brutality and violence. We never found footage of my father – no indication regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Over time, the circumstances became clearer. My aged family – along with 74 others – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. In the chaos, one in four of our neighbors were killed or captured.

After more than two weeks, my mum emerged from captivity. As she left, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of the militant. "Peace," she said. That gesture – a simple human connection amid unimaginable horror – was shared everywhere.

Five hundred and two days afterward, my father's remains were recovered. He died a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and their documentation remain with me. The two years since – our determined activism to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the destruction across the border – has compounded the original wound.

My family were lifelong peace activists. My mother still is, like most of my family. We understand that hostility and vengeance won't provide any comfort from our suffering.

I share these thoughts while crying. Over the months, sharing the experience grows harder, rather than simpler. The young ones of my friends are still captive and the weight of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I term remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We're used to telling our experience to campaign for hostage release, while mourning remains a luxury we cannot afford – now, our work continues.

Not one word of this narrative is intended as endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected hostilities from day one. The residents of Gaza endured tragedy terribly.

I am horrified by political choices, yet emphasizing that the organization are not benign resistance fighters. Because I know their actions that day. They abandoned the community – creating suffering for everyone because of their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story with people supporting what happened appears as betraying my dead. My community here confronts unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought with the authorities throughout this period facing repeated disappointment multiple times.

Across the fields, the devastation in Gaza appears clearly and visceral. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that numerous people appear to offer to the organizations creates discouragement.