🔗 Share this article Two Years Following October 7th: As Hate Became Fashion – The Reason Humanity Stands as Our Only Hope It started that morning looking completely ordinary. I was traveling together with my loved ones to welcome a new puppy. Everything seemed steady – then everything changed. Glancing at my screen, I discovered news about the border region. I tried reaching my mum, expecting her calm response telling me they were secure. Nothing. My parent was also silent. Afterward, my brother answered – his voice already told me the devastating news even as he explained. The Unfolding Tragedy I've observed so many people on television whose existence were destroyed. Their expressions showing they didn't understand their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of horror were building, with the wreckage was still swirling. My child looked at me from his screen. I shifted to reach out separately. Once we reached our destination, I saw the brutal execution of a woman from my past – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the attackers who took over her residence. I recall believing: "Not a single of our family would make it." At some point, I viewed videos showing fire bursting through our residence. Even then, later on, I denied the home had burned – not until my brothers sent me visual confirmation. The Aftermath Upon arriving at the station, I called the puppy provider. "A war has erupted," I explained. "My family are likely gone. Our neighborhood has been taken over by terrorists." The return trip consisted of trying to contact friends and family while simultaneously shielding my child from the terrible visuals that circulated through networks. The footage of that day exceeded anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son taken by several attackers. My former educator transported to the territory using transportation. People shared social media clips that defied reality. A senior community member also taken across the border. A young mother and her little boys – boys I knew well – being rounded up by attackers, the terror in her eyes stunning. The Long Wait It appeared interminable for help to arrive the kibbutz. Then began the painful anticipation for news. As time passed, a lone picture appeared depicting escapees. My parents were not among them. During the following period, while neighbors assisted investigators locate the missing, we combed the internet for traces of our loved ones. We saw torture and mutilation. We didn't discover footage of my father – no evidence about his final moments. The Unfolding Truth Eventually, the reality grew more distinct. My aged family – together with numerous community members – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, my mother 85. In the chaos, one in four of the residents lost their lives or freedom. Over two weeks afterward, my parent emerged from captivity. As she left, she looked back and offered a handshake of the militant. "Peace," she uttered. That image – a simple human connection within indescribable tragedy – was transmitted globally. Five hundred and two days afterward, Dad's body were recovered. He was killed just two miles from the kibbutz. The Continuing Trauma These tragedies and the visual proof still terrorize me. The two years since – our determined activism to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has worsened the primary pain. My family remained advocates for peace. My parent remains, similar to most of my family. We recognize that animosity and retaliation won't provide any comfort from our suffering. I write this amid sorrow. Over the months, talking about what happened grows harder, rather than simpler. The kids from my community remain hostages and the weight of subsequent events feels heavy. The Internal Conflict Personally, I term remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We typically telling our experience to campaign for freedom, though grieving feels like privilege we lack – now, our campaign endures. No part of this story serves as endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected hostilities since it started. The population of Gaza have suffered unimaginably. I'm appalled by political choices, but I also insist that the militants are not peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed their atrocities on October 7th. They abandoned their own people – ensuring tragedy on both sides through their violent beliefs. The Social Divide Sharing my story with people supporting the attackers' actions feels like failing the deceased. My local circle experiences growing prejudice, while my community there has fought versus leadership for two years and been betrayed repeatedly. Looking over, the destruction across the frontier appears clearly and painful. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that various individuals appear to offer to the attackers creates discouragement.