24 Months Since that October Day: As Hostility Turned Into Fashion – Why Compassion Stands as Our Only Hope

It started on a morning that seemed completely ordinary. I journeyed accompanied by my family to collect our new dog. The world appeared secure – then reality shattered.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed news from the border. I tried reaching my mother, expecting her reassuring tone saying they were secure. No answer. My parent couldn't be reached. Then, I reached my brother – his voice immediately revealed the devastating news even as he said anything.

The Emerging Nightmare

I've witnessed countless individuals on television whose worlds had collapsed. Their eyes showing they hadn't yet processed what they'd lost. Now it was me. The floodwaters of tragedy were rising, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My son glanced toward me over his laptop. I relocated to make calls in private. By the time we arrived our destination, I would witness the terrible killing of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the militants who took over her house.

I remember thinking: "None of our friends will survive."

Later, I saw footage depicting flames erupting from our residence. Nonetheless, later on, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – before my brothers shared with me visual confirmation.

The Aftermath

Getting to the city, I contacted the puppy provider. "Conflict has erupted," I told them. "My parents are probably dead. Our kibbutz was captured by militants."

The ride back consisted of trying to contact friends and family while simultaneously shielding my child from the horrific images that circulated through networks.

The images during those hours exceeded any possible expectation. Our neighbor's young son captured by armed militants. My mathematics teacher transported to the border on a golf cart.

Friends sent social media clips that seemed impossible. A senior community member also taken to Gaza. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – seized by militants, the terror visible on her face stunning.

The Agonizing Delay

It felt interminable for assistance to reach the kibbutz. Then began the painful anticipation for updates. Later that afternoon, one photograph appeared of survivors. My parents were not among them.

For days and weeks, as friends helped forensic teams document losses, we scoured the internet for evidence of family members. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover footage of my father – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Eventually, the circumstances became clearer. My senior mother and father – as well as 74 others – were abducted from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. In the chaos, one in four of our neighbors were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mother left confinement. Prior to leaving, she glanced behind and shook hands of her captor. "Hello," she said. That image – a basic human interaction amid unimaginable horror – was transmitted everywhere.

More than sixteen months later, my father's remains were returned. He was murdered only kilometers from our home.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and their documentation continue to haunt me. The two years since – our determined activism to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has intensified the primary pain.

My family had always been peace activists. My mother still is, like other loved ones. We know that hate and revenge don't offer any comfort from the pain.

I write this through tears. With each day, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, not easier. The children from my community are still captive with the burden of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I call dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We're used to telling our experience to campaign for the captives, though grieving remains a luxury we lack – now, our campaign persists.

Not one word of this account represents endorsement of violence. I've always been against the fighting from the beginning. The population of Gaza have suffered terribly.

I'm shocked by leadership actions, but I also insist that the militants are not innocent activists. Since I witnessed their atrocities during those hours. They betrayed their own people – creating pain for all because of their violent beliefs.

The Community Split

Discussing my experience with those who defend the attackers' actions feels like betraying my dead. My local circle faces rising hostility, and our people back home has campaigned versus leadership throughout this period facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

Looking over, the destruction of the territory appears clearly and painful. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that numerous people appear to offer to the attackers causes hopelessness.