🔗 Share this article Two Long Years Following October 7th: When Hate Became Trend – The Reason Compassion Is Our Best Hope It unfolded during that morning looking completely ordinary. I rode together with my loved ones to collect our new dog. Life felt predictable – until it all shifted. Opening my phone, I noticed news from the border. I tried reaching my parent, expecting her cheerful voice explaining they were secure. Nothing. My father couldn't be reached. Next, I reached my brother – his speech immediately revealed the awful reality prior to he said anything. The Unfolding Horror I've seen numerous faces in media reports whose lives were destroyed. Their expressions showing they didn't understand their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of horror were rising, and the debris hadn't settled. My young one looked at me from his screen. I relocated to contact people separately. Once we arrived our destination, I would witness the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the militants who seized her house. I remember thinking: "Not one of our friends will survive." Eventually, I viewed videos depicting flames erupting from our house. Even then, later on, I couldn't believe the home had burned – before my family provided images and proof. The Aftermath When we reached the city, I phoned the kennel owner. "Hostilities has erupted," I said. "My parents are probably dead. My community was captured by militants." The journey home consisted of trying to contact loved ones while also guarding my young one from the horrific images that were emerging through networks. The images during those hours were beyond all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by several attackers. My former educator driven toward the border in a vehicle. Individuals circulated social media clips that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured to Gaza. A young mother accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – seized by militants, the terror apparent in her expression devastating. The Agonizing Delay It felt interminable for assistance to reach our community. Then began the painful anticipation for information. In the evening, a single image circulated showing those who made it. My family weren't there. During the following period, as community members worked with authorities document losses, we searched the internet for evidence of our loved ones. We saw brutality and violence. There was no footage of my father – no indication regarding his experience. The Emerging Picture Eventually, the situation grew more distinct. My senior mother and father – together with dozens more – became captives from our kibbutz. My father was 83, Mom was 85. During the violence, a quarter of the residents were killed or captured. Over two weeks afterward, my mum was released from imprisonment. Before departing, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of her captor. "Hello," she spoke. That image – a simple human connection during unimaginable horror – was broadcast globally. More than sixteen months following, my parent's physical presence were returned. He was murdered a short distance from the kibbutz. The Persistent Wound These experiences and their documentation continue to haunt me. The two years since – our urgent efforts to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the destruction across the border – has intensified the original wound. My family were lifelong advocates for peace. My mother still is, like other loved ones. We understand that hate and revenge won't provide the slightest solace from our suffering. I compose these words amid sorrow. As time passes, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The kids from my community remain hostages along with the pressure of what followed is overwhelming. The Personal Struggle In my mind, I call remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We're used to discussing events to campaign for hostage release, though grieving feels like privilege we cannot afford – after 24 months, our work persists. Not one word of this narrative represents endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected the fighting from day one. The people in the territory endured tragedy terribly. I am horrified by government decisions, while maintaining that the organization shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Having seen their atrocities that day. They betrayed the community – ensuring suffering for everyone due to their violent beliefs. The Personal Isolation Sharing my story with those who defend the violence seems like betraying my dead. My local circle experiences growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought versus leadership throughout this period and been betrayed again and again. Across the fields, the devastation of the territory can be seen and visceral. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that many seem willing to provide to the organizations creates discouragement.