Two Years Since October 7th: When Hate Became Fashion – The Reason Humanity Remains Our Only Hope

It began during that morning that seemed perfectly normal. I rode with my husband and son to pick up a furry companion. Life felt steady – then reality shattered.

Opening my phone, I noticed updates about the border region. I tried reaching my mother, anticipating her reassuring tone telling me they were secure. Nothing. My dad couldn't be reached. Afterward, my brother answered – his speech already told me the terrible truth before he said anything.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've observed countless individuals in media reports whose lives were torn apart. Their gaze showing they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The torrent of violence were rising, and the debris was still swirling.

My son looked at me over his laptop. I shifted to reach out in private. By the time we reached the station, I saw the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the attackers who captured her home.

I recall believing: "Not one of our family will survive."

At some point, I viewed videos showing fire erupting from our house. Despite this, for days afterward, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – before my brothers provided photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

Getting to the station, I phoned the kennel owner. "Conflict has begun," I told them. "My mother and father may not survive. My community fell to by terrorists."

The return trip involved searching for friends and family while also protecting my son from the terrible visuals that were emerging through networks.

The images from that day transcended anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son captured by multiple terrorists. My former educator driven toward the territory on a golf cart.

Individuals circulated digital recordings that seemed impossible. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted into the territory. A woman I knew with her two small sons – children I had played with – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the horror apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It felt to take forever for the military to come the kibbutz. Then started the painful anticipation for information. Later that afternoon, a lone picture emerged showing those who made it. My family were missing.

During the following period, as friends assisted investigators document losses, we combed digital spaces for traces of our loved ones. We witnessed brutality and violence. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no clue about his final moments.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the reality became clearer. My aged family – together with numerous community members – became captives from our kibbutz. My father was 83, Mom was 85. During the violence, 25 percent of our community members lost their lives or freedom.

After more than two weeks, my mother left captivity. Prior to leaving, she looked back and shook hands of her captor. "Hello," she uttered. That moment – a simple human connection within unimaginable horror – was shared globally.

More than sixteen months following, my father's remains were recovered. He was murdered only kilometers from where we lived.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and the recorded evidence continue to haunt me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the initial trauma.

My mother and father remained campaigners for reconciliation. Mom continues, similar to many relatives. We understand that hate and revenge don't offer the slightest solace from our suffering.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. Over the months, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The young ones from my community are still captive along with the pressure of what followed feels heavy.

The Personal Struggle

In my mind, I describe focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We're used to discussing events to fight for hostage release, though grieving feels like privilege we cannot afford – after 24 months, our efforts persists.

No part of this story represents justification for war. I have consistently opposed this conflict from the beginning. The residents of Gaza have suffered beyond imagination.

I am horrified by leadership actions, but I also insist that the organization cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed their actions during those hours. They failed the community – ensuring pain for all because of their murderous ideology.

The Community Split

Telling my truth with people supporting the attackers' actions feels like dishonoring the lost. My community here experiences growing prejudice, and our people back home has struggled against its government throughout this period and been betrayed repeatedly.

From the border, the devastation across the frontier appears clearly and emotional. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the moral carte blanche that many seem to grant to militant groups causes hopelessness.