Two Long Years Since that October Day: As Hate Turned Into Fashion – The Reason Compassion Stands as Our Only Hope

It started that morning appearing perfectly normal. I journeyed accompanied by my family to welcome a new puppy. The world appeared secure – until it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I saw reports from the border. I called my mum, anticipating her calm response saying she was safe. No answer. My parent couldn't be reached. Next, my sibling picked up – his voice instantly communicated the devastating news before he explained.

The Developing Horror

I've witnessed so many people on television whose lives had collapsed. Their eyes revealing they didn't understand their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The deluge of violence were overwhelming, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My son looked at me over his laptop. I moved to make calls in private. By the time we arrived the station, I would witness the brutal execution of a woman from my past – almost 80 years old – as it was streamed by the attackers who took over her residence.

I recall believing: "Not one of our family could live through this."

Later, I witnessed recordings showing fire erupting from our house. Despite this, in the following days, I couldn't believe the house was destroyed – not until my brothers shared with me photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

When we reached our destination, I contacted the kennel owner. "Hostilities has begun," I said. "My family are probably dead. Our kibbutz was captured by attackers."

The journey home involved attempting to reach community members and at the same time shielding my child from the terrible visuals that circulated across platforms.

The footage during those hours transcended all comprehension. A child from our community seized by armed militants. My former educator transported to the territory on a golf cart.

Individuals circulated social media clips appearing unbelievable. My mother's elderly companion likewise abducted across the border. A woman I knew and her little boys – children I had played with – captured by attackers, the fear visible on her face devastating.

The Painful Period

It seemed to take forever for help to arrive the kibbutz. Then began the painful anticipation for updates. As time passed, a single image appeared showing those who made it. My mother and father were not among them.

For days and weeks, while neighbors assisted investigators document losses, we combed online platforms for evidence of family members. We encountered brutality and violence. We never found visual evidence about Dad – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Emerging Picture

Eventually, the reality grew more distinct. My aged family – as well as 74 others – were abducted from the community. My parent was in his eighties, my mother 85. In the chaos, a quarter of the residents were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my mum was released from confinement. Prior to leaving, she turned and shook hands of the militant. "Peace," she uttered. That moment – a basic human interaction during unimaginable horror – was transmitted everywhere.

Five hundred and two days afterward, my father's remains were returned. He was murdered only kilometers from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These events and their documentation still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the primary pain.

My mother and father remained peace activists. My parent remains, similar to other loved ones. We understand that hate and revenge don't offer even momentary relief from this tragedy.

I write this while crying. As time passes, talking about what happened intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The children belonging to companions remain hostages with the burden of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Personal Struggle

To myself, I term dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We typically telling our experience to campaign for freedom, while mourning seems unaffordable we cannot afford – and two years later, our work endures.

Nothing of this story represents endorsement of violence. I've always been against the fighting from day one. The people in the territory endured tragedy beyond imagination.

I'm shocked by political choices, but I also insist that the attackers are not peaceful protesters. Having seen their atrocities that day. They failed their own people – ensuring suffering for everyone because of their murderous ideology.

The Social Divide

Discussing my experience among individuals justifying the attackers' actions appears as betraying my dead. My community here experiences growing prejudice, and our people back home has struggled with the authorities throughout this period while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

Across the fields, the ruin across the frontier appears clearly and painful. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that numerous people appear to offer to the organizations makes me despair.