Two Years Since October 7th: When Hate Turned Into The Norm – The Reason Compassion Remains Our Only Hope

It began on a morning appearing completely ordinary. I rode with my husband and son to pick up a furry companion. Everything seemed secure – then it all shifted.

Opening my phone, I discovered news concerning the frontier. I tried reaching my mother, anticipating her cheerful voice telling me everything was fine. No answer. My dad was also silent. Afterward, my sibling picked up – his voice immediately revealed the devastating news even as he explained.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've seen countless individuals in media reports whose lives 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 child watched me over his laptop. I shifted to reach out in private. When we reached the city, I saw the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the attackers who seized her house.

I recall believing: "Not a single of our loved ones will survive."

Later, I viewed videos showing fire bursting through our house. Despite this, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the building was gone – before my siblings shared with me photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

Getting to the city, I contacted the kennel owner. "Hostilities has begun," I said. "My mother and father may not survive. My community fell to by attackers."

The journey home involved trying to contact friends and family while simultaneously guarding my young one from the terrible visuals that circulated across platforms.

The scenes during those hours were beyond all comprehension. A child from our community captured by several attackers. My mathematics teacher transported to Gaza on a golf cart.

Friends sent Telegram videos that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion also taken to Gaza. A young mother accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – seized by attackers, the terror apparent in her expression devastating.

The Painful Period

It seemed interminable for help to arrive the kibbutz. Then began the painful anticipation for information. As time passed, one photograph circulated depicting escapees. My family were not among them.

For days and weeks, as friends helped forensic teams document losses, we searched the internet for traces of family members. We saw atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no indication concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Over time, the circumstances became clearer. My aged family – along with numerous community members – became captives from our kibbutz. My father was 83, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, one in four of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom.

Seventeen days later, my mum left captivity. Before departing, she looked back and offered a handshake of her captor. "Shalom," she spoke. That image – a simple human connection within unspeakable violence – was broadcast worldwide.

Five hundred and two days later, my father's remains came back. He was killed just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and the visual proof still terrorize me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts for the captives, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the original wound.

My mother and father remained campaigners for reconciliation. My parent remains, like other loved ones. We understand that animosity and retaliation don't offer the slightest solace from this tragedy.

I share these thoughts through tears. Over the months, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, rather than simpler. The kids belonging to companions continue imprisoned along with the pressure of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I term remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We typically discussing events to campaign for the captives, despite sorrow remains a luxury we don't have – after 24 months, our work persists.

No part of this account represents endorsement of violence. I've always been against the fighting from the beginning. The residents in the territory experienced pain beyond imagination.

I am horrified by leadership actions, but I also insist that the militants cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Because I know their atrocities during those hours. They betrayed the population – creating pain for all because of their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story among individuals justifying the violence feels like betraying my dead. The people around me faces rising hostility, while my community there has fought with the authorities consistently facing repeated disappointment again and again.

Across the fields, the destruction of the territory appears clearly and emotional. It horrifies me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that numerous people seem willing to provide to the organizations creates discouragement.