24 Months Since the 7th of October: When Hostility Turned Into The Norm – Why Empathy Remains Our Only Hope

It began during that morning looking perfectly normal. I journeyed with my husband and son to pick up a new puppy. The world appeared secure – until reality shattered.

Opening my phone, I discovered updates concerning the frontier. I tried reaching my mother, anticipating her calm response telling me everything was fine. Silence. My dad couldn't be reached. Next, my sibling picked up – his voice instantly communicated the devastating news even as he said anything.

The Developing Horror

I've witnessed countless individuals on television whose lives were destroyed. Their gaze demonstrating they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of tragedy were rising, with the wreckage remained chaotic.

My son looked at me over his laptop. I shifted to contact people in private. Once we arrived our destination, I encountered the horrific murder of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the militants who took over her home.

I remember thinking: "None of our loved ones would make it."

Later, I viewed videos depicting flames erupting from our residence. Even then, for days afterward, I refused to accept the building was gone – before my siblings shared with me visual confirmation.

The Consequences

When we reached the station, I called the puppy provider. "Conflict has begun," I said. "My mother and father may not survive. Our neighborhood has been taken over by militants."

The journey home was spent trying to contact community members while simultaneously protecting my son from the awful footage that circulated through networks.

The footage from that day were beyond all comprehension. Our neighbor's young son taken by armed militants. My former educator driven toward the territory using transportation.

People shared digital recordings that defied reality. A senior community member also taken across the border. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – boys I knew well – seized by militants, the fear apparent in her expression devastating.

The Long Wait

It appeared endless for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then began the painful anticipation for updates. As time passed, one photograph circulated showing those who made it. My family were not among them.

For days and weeks, as community members assisted investigators document losses, we searched digital spaces for signs of those missing. We encountered torture and mutilation. There was no recordings showing my parent – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Over time, the circumstances grew more distinct. My aged family – together with dozens more – became captives from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, a quarter of our neighbors were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mum left confinement. As she left, she looked back and shook hands of her captor. "Peace," she uttered. That gesture – a basic human interaction amid indescribable tragedy – was broadcast globally.

Over 500 days following, my father's remains were recovered. He was murdered only kilometers from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These events and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. The two years since – our desperate campaign to save hostages, my parent's awful death, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the primary pain.

My mother and father had always been advocates for peace. My parent remains, like other loved ones. We understand that hostility and vengeance won't provide any comfort from the pain.

I share these thoughts through tears. Over the months, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The kids of my friends remain hostages along with the pressure of subsequent events feels heavy.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I call remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We typically telling our experience to fight for hostage release, though grieving feels like privilege we cannot afford – and two years later, our work continues.

No part of this narrative represents support for conflict. I have consistently opposed hostilities from the beginning. The people in the territory have suffered unimaginably.

I'm shocked by leadership actions, but I also insist that the organization cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed what they did on October 7th. They betrayed the community – causing suffering for everyone because of their violent beliefs.

The Community Split

Telling my truth with those who defend the violence seems like betraying my dead. My community here experiences rising hostility, while my community there has struggled against its government consistently facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

Across the fields, the devastation in Gaza can be seen and emotional. It appalls me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that many appear to offer to militant groups makes me despair.