Two Years Since the 7th of October: As Hate Became Fashion – Why Compassion Stands as Our Sole Hope

It started that morning appearing entirely routine. I rode with my husband and son to pick up a furry companion. Everything seemed steady – before everything changed.

Opening my phone, I discovered reports from the border. I tried reaching my parent, hoping for her cheerful voice telling me everything was fine. Nothing. My parent was also silent. Afterward, my brother answered – his voice instantly communicated the terrible truth even as he spoke.

The Developing Horror

I've observed countless individuals on television whose lives were destroyed. Their eyes revealing they didn't understand their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The floodwaters of tragedy were building, and the debris remained chaotic.

My young one looked at me over his laptop. I shifted to contact people separately. By the time we reached the city, I saw the horrific murder of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the terrorists who captured her residence.

I thought to myself: "Not one of our loved ones could live through this."

Eventually, I witnessed recordings depicting flames erupting from our house. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – not until my family shared with me visual confirmation.

The Consequences

Getting to the city, I phoned the puppy provider. "A war has erupted," I said. "My mother and father are likely gone. Our kibbutz was captured by militants."

The ride back involved trying to contact loved ones while also protecting my son from the awful footage that spread through networks.

The footage from that day were beyond any possible expectation. A child from our community seized by multiple terrorists. Someone who taught me driven toward the territory in a vehicle.

People shared digital recordings that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured into the territory. A young mother and her little boys – boys I knew well – seized by armed terrorists, the fear visible on her face stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It seemed interminable for help to arrive the area. Then commenced the painful anticipation for updates. In the evening, a single image appeared of survivors. My mother and father were not among them.

Over many days, while neighbors helped forensic teams locate the missing, we scoured digital spaces for traces of family members. We saw torture and mutilation. We never found recordings showing my parent – no evidence about his final moments.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the circumstances became clearer. My senior mother and father – as well as dozens more – were abducted from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my mother 85. During the violence, 25 percent of our community members were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mother emerged from captivity. Prior to leaving, she turned and shook hands of the militant. "Peace," she said. That image – a basic human interaction during unimaginable horror – was transmitted everywhere.

Over 500 days later, Dad's body came back. He died a short distance from our home.

The Continuing Trauma

These experiences and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. The two years since – our urgent efforts for the captives, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has intensified the primary pain.

Both my parents were lifelong advocates for peace. My mother still is, similar to other loved ones. We understand that hate and revenge won't provide even momentary relief from our suffering.

I write this while crying. With each day, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The kids from my community are still captive along with the pressure of the aftermath feels heavy.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I term focusing on the trauma "immersed in suffering". We're used to telling our experience to campaign for hostage release, while mourning seems unaffordable we don't have – and two years later, our campaign persists.

Nothing of this account represents justification for war. I continuously rejected this conflict from the beginning. The people in the territory experienced pain unimaginably.

I'm shocked by political choices, yet emphasizing that the organization shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Because I know their actions that day. They betrayed their own people – creating pain for all through their deadly philosophy.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth with those who defend the violence appears as dishonoring the lost. The people around me experiences rising hostility, and our people back home has fought with the authorities consistently while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

From the border, the devastation across the frontier can be seen and painful. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that various individuals seem to grant to militant groups causes hopelessness.