24 Months Following the 7th of October: When Hostility Turned Into The Norm – Why Compassion Is Our Only Hope

It started that morning that seemed completely ordinary. I rode together with my loved ones to pick up our new dog. Everything seemed predictable – before it all shifted.

Checking my device, I noticed reports from the border. I tried reaching my mother, anticipating her reassuring tone saying she was safe. No answer. My father didn't respond either. Afterward, I reached my brother – his tone immediately revealed the awful reality prior to he spoke.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've witnessed numerous faces through news coverage whose worlds were torn apart. Their eyes demonstrating they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of tragedy were rising, with the wreckage was still swirling.

My son glanced toward me from his screen. I shifted to contact people in private. By the time we reached our destination, I encountered the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the terrorists who seized her residence.

I remember thinking: "None of our family will survive."

Eventually, I witnessed recordings showing fire erupting from our family home. Despite this, later on, I denied the home had burned – until my brothers shared with me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

When we reached the station, I phoned the kennel owner. "A war has erupted," I told them. "My family may not survive. My community fell to by terrorists."

The ride back involved searching for community members while also guarding my young one from the awful footage that circulated everywhere.

The scenes during those hours transcended all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by armed militants. My mathematics teacher taken in the direction of the territory using transportation.

Individuals circulated Telegram videos appearing unbelievable. A senior community member similarly captured to Gaza. A woman I knew with her two small sons – boys I knew well – captured by armed terrorists, the fear visible on her face devastating.

The Painful Period

It appeared interminable for the military to come the area. Then started the terrible uncertainty for updates. As time passed, a lone picture appeared of survivors. My mother and father were missing.

During the following period, while neighbors assisted investigators document losses, we scoured online platforms for evidence of those missing. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the reality emerged more fully. My elderly parents – along with dozens more – became captives from their home. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. In the chaos, a quarter of the residents were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my parent left confinement. Prior to leaving, she turned and offered a handshake of her captor. "Hello," she uttered. That gesture – a basic human interaction amid unspeakable violence – was broadcast everywhere.

More than sixteen months later, Dad's body were returned. He was killed only kilometers from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and the recorded evidence remain with me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has intensified the initial trauma.

My family remained campaigners for reconciliation. My mother still is, like most of my family. We recognize that hostility and vengeance cannot bring even momentary relief from our suffering.

I compose these words through tears. Over the months, discussing these events grows harder, instead of improving. The kids belonging to companions continue imprisoned with the burden of what followed remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I describe focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed discussing events to fight for the captives, though grieving seems unaffordable we don't have – and two years later, our campaign persists.

No part of this narrative represents endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed this conflict since it started. The residents across the border experienced pain unimaginably.

I'm appalled by political choices, while maintaining that the militants shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Having seen their atrocities on October 7th. They failed the community – ensuring pain for all through their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story among individuals justifying what happened seems like betraying my dead. The people around me experiences unprecedented antisemitism, meanwhile our kibbutz has campaigned with the authorities for two years and been betrayed repeatedly.

From the border, the destruction of the territory appears clearly and visceral. It horrifies me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that various individuals appear to offer to the attackers makes me despair.