🔗 Share this article Two Long Years After that October Day: As Hate Turned Into Trend – Why Empathy Remains Our Sole Hope It began on a morning looking entirely routine. I rode accompanied by my family to pick up a furry companion. Life felt predictable – before it all shifted. Checking my device, I saw reports about the border region. I dialed my mother, expecting her cheerful voice telling me she was safe. No answer. My father didn't respond either. Then, my sibling picked up – his voice immediately revealed the awful reality even as he spoke. The Emerging Tragedy I've seen countless individuals through news coverage whose existence were destroyed. Their gaze demonstrating they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of violence were overwhelming, amid the destruction hadn't settled. My young one watched me from his screen. I shifted to contact people alone. By the time we reached the city, I would witness the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – shown in real-time by the attackers who seized her residence. I recall believing: "Not a single of our loved ones will survive." Eventually, I viewed videos revealing blazes consuming our residence. Nonetheless, later on, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – before my family provided visual confirmation. The Consequences Getting to the city, I phoned the kennel owner. "Hostilities has begun," I explained. "My parents are likely gone. Our neighborhood has been taken over by attackers." The ride back involved attempting to reach friends and family while also protecting my son from the horrific images that spread across platforms. The scenes of that day transcended all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by armed militants. Someone who taught me taken in the direction of the border in a vehicle. Individuals circulated Telegram videos that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion likewise abducted into the territory. A woman I knew with her two small sons – children I had played with – captured by attackers, the terror visible on her face stunning. The Long Wait It appeared interminable for the military to come our community. Then began the terrible uncertainty for updates. Later that afternoon, one photograph appeared depicting escapees. My parents weren't there. For days and weeks, as community members worked with authorities identify victims, we scoured digital spaces for traces of family members. We saw torture and mutilation. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no evidence regarding his experience. The Developing Reality Gradually, the situation emerged more fully. My elderly parents – together with 74 others – became captives from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. In the chaos, a quarter of our neighbors were killed or captured. Seventeen days later, my mum left imprisonment. As she left, she glanced behind and shook hands of the guard. "Hello," she said. That image – an elemental act of humanity during unimaginable horror – was transmitted worldwide. Over 500 days later, Dad's body were recovered. He was killed just two miles from our home. The Continuing Trauma These experiences and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism for the captives, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the original wound. Both my parents remained peace activists. Mom continues, similar to most of my family. We recognize that animosity and retaliation don't offer any comfort from our suffering. I share these thoughts through tears. As time passes, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, not easier. The children of my friends are still captive and the weight of the aftermath feels heavy. The Internal Conflict To myself, I call focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We typically discussing events to campaign for hostage release, though grieving remains a luxury we cannot afford – after 24 months, our campaign continues. No part of this story is intended as justification for war. I have consistently opposed hostilities since it started. The residents of Gaza experienced pain unimaginably. I'm shocked by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the militants shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed their atrocities during those hours. They abandoned their own people – creating pain for all because of their murderous ideology. The Community Split Sharing my story with people supporting the attackers' actions appears as failing the deceased. The people around me faces rising hostility, and our people back home has campaigned versus leadership consistently facing repeated disappointment multiple times. Across the fields, the destruction across the frontier is visible and visceral. It horrifies me. At the same time, the complete justification that various individuals seem willing to provide to the attackers makes me despair.