🔗 Share this article Two Long Years Since October 7th: As Animosity Became Fashion – Why Empathy Remains Our Only Hope It began that morning that seemed perfectly normal. I journeyed with my husband and son to pick up our new dog. Everything seemed secure – before everything changed. Glancing at my screen, I noticed updates from the border. I called my mother, hoping for her reassuring tone explaining everything was fine. Silence. My father didn't respond either. Next, my sibling picked up – his speech instantly communicated the devastating news even as he spoke. The Emerging Nightmare I've seen countless individuals in media reports whose existence were torn apart. Their expressions showing they hadn't yet processed their loss. Now it was me. The deluge of violence were building, and the debris hadn't settled. My young one looked at me across the seat. I shifted to make calls separately. When we got to the city, I would witness the brutal execution of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the militants who seized her residence. I recall believing: "Not a single of our family could live through this." Eventually, I viewed videos showing fire consuming our house. Even then, for days afterward, I denied the building was gone – until my brothers shared with me photographs and evidence. The Consequences When we reached the station, I called the kennel owner. "A war has begun," I told them. "My parents may not survive. Our neighborhood was captured by militants." The ride back involved attempting to reach loved ones and at the same time shielding my child from the terrible visuals that circulated through networks. The footage of that day transcended any possible expectation. A child from our community seized by several attackers. My former educator transported to Gaza on a golf cart. Individuals circulated Telegram videos that seemed impossible. A senior community member likewise abducted into the territory. A young mother with her two small sons – children I had played with – captured by militants, the terror in her eyes stunning. The Agonizing Delay It appeared endless for the military to come the area. Then started the painful anticipation for updates. Later that afternoon, a single image emerged of survivors. My parents were not among them. During the following period, as community members helped forensic teams identify victims, we combed digital spaces for signs of those missing. We encountered torture and mutilation. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no indication concerning his ordeal. The Unfolding Truth Eventually, the situation emerged more fully. My elderly parents – together with 74 others – became captives from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, my mother 85. Amid the terror, a quarter of our community members were murdered or abducted. After more than two weeks, my mum was released from captivity. Before departing, she turned and offered a handshake of the guard. "Hello," she uttered. That moment – an elemental act of humanity within indescribable tragedy – was broadcast globally. More than sixteen months following, Dad's body came back. He was killed only kilometers from our home. The Continuing Trauma These events and the visual proof continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism for the captives, my father's horrific end, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has intensified the original wound. My mother and father had always been peace activists. My mother still is, as are most of my family. We understand that hostility and vengeance don't offer even momentary relief from our suffering. I compose these words amid sorrow. With each day, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, not easier. The young ones from my community remain hostages and the weight of subsequent events feels heavy. The Individual Battle To myself, I term dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We typically sharing our story to advocate for freedom, despite sorrow feels like privilege we cannot afford – now, our campaign endures. Not one word of this narrative represents support for conflict. I continuously rejected the fighting since it started. The population of Gaza experienced pain beyond imagination. I'm shocked by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the attackers cannot be considered innocent activists. Because I know their atrocities on October 7th. They abandoned the community – causing suffering for everyone through their murderous ideology. The Community Split Telling my truth among individuals justifying what happened seems like betraying my dead. The people around me confronts growing prejudice, while my community there has struggled versus leadership throughout this period facing repeated disappointment multiple times. Looking over, the ruin in Gaza is visible and painful. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the moral carte blanche that various individuals seem willing to provide to the attackers causes hopelessness.