Two Long Years Since that October Day: When Hostility Became Trend – Why Compassion Is Our Best Hope

It unfolded that morning appearing perfectly normal. I was traveling accompanied by my family to collect our new dog. Everything seemed secure – until reality shattered.

Checking my device, I noticed reports about the border region. I dialed my mum, anticipating her cheerful voice saying they were secure. Nothing. My parent couldn't be reached. Afterward, I reached my brother – his tone immediately revealed the devastating news prior to he spoke.

The Unfolding Nightmare

I've observed numerous faces in media reports whose lives were torn apart. Their eyes demonstrating they didn't understand what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The deluge of tragedy were overwhelming, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My son glanced toward me over his laptop. I shifted to reach out separately. When we reached the city, I encountered the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the militants who took over her home.

I thought to myself: "Not a single of our loved ones would make it."

Later, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes erupting from our house. Nonetheless, later on, I denied the home had burned – not until my family shared with me visual confirmation.

The Fallout

Getting to the city, I called the puppy provider. "Conflict has erupted," I said. "My family may not survive. Our neighborhood fell to by attackers."

The journey home involved attempting to reach friends and family and at the same time shielding my child from the horrific images that circulated through networks.

The scenes from that day were beyond all comprehension. A child from our community seized by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher driven toward the territory on a golf cart.

Friends sent digital recordings appearing unbelievable. My mother's elderly companion likewise abducted into the territory. A woman I knew accompanied by her children – boys I knew well – seized by attackers, the fear visible on her face paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It seemed interminable for assistance to reach our community. Then started the agonizing wait for updates. In the evening, one photograph emerged showing those who made it. My family weren't there.

For days and weeks, as community members assisted investigators document losses, we combed digital spaces for signs of those missing. We encountered brutality and violence. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no clue regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Eventually, the situation grew more distinct. My aged family – along with dozens more – became captives from their home. My father was 83, my mother 85. In the chaos, 25 percent of our neighbors were killed or captured.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother emerged from captivity. As she left, she turned and shook hands of the militant. "Peace," she uttered. That gesture – an elemental act of humanity during indescribable tragedy – was broadcast everywhere.

Five hundred and two days following, my father's remains came back. He died a short distance from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These experiences and the recorded evidence remain with me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the destruction across the border – has worsened the initial trauma.

My mother and father had always been peace activists. My mother still is, as are other loved ones. We understand that animosity and retaliation cannot bring any comfort from this tragedy.

I write this while crying. As time passes, sharing the experience intensifies in challenge, not easier. The kids of my friends continue imprisoned and the weight of what followed remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I describe focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed telling our experience to fight for the captives, while mourning feels like privilege we don't have – now, our efforts endures.

Not one word of this story is intended as justification for war. I continuously rejected this conflict from day one. The residents of Gaza have suffered unimaginably.

I'm appalled by government decisions, while maintaining that the militants shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed what they did during those hours. They abandoned the community – causing pain for all due to their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth among individuals justifying the attackers' actions feels like betraying my dead. The people around me experiences growing prejudice, while my community there has fought with the authorities consistently facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

From the border, the destruction in Gaza appears clearly and painful. It horrifies me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that numerous people appear to offer to the attackers causes hopelessness.