🔗 Share this article Two Long Years After October 7th: As Hostility Turned Into Fashion – Why Compassion Is Our Only Hope It unfolded during that morning looking perfectly normal. I journeyed together with my loved ones to collect a furry companion. Everything seemed steady – before it all shifted. Glancing at my screen, I saw reports concerning the frontier. I called my mother, hoping for her cheerful voice saying everything was fine. Nothing. My parent couldn't be reached. Next, I reached my brother – his speech instantly communicated the awful reality before he spoke. The Emerging Nightmare I've witnessed numerous faces through news coverage whose existence had collapsed. Their expressions showing they didn't understand their loss. Then it became our turn. The deluge of horror were building, amid the destruction hadn't settled. My child glanced toward me over his laptop. I relocated to reach out separately. By the time we reached the city, I saw the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the terrorists who seized her residence. I recall believing: "Not one of our family would make it." At some point, I viewed videos revealing blazes erupting from our family home. Even then, for days afterward, I refused to accept the home had burned – before my siblings shared with me images and proof. The Consequences Getting to our destination, I phoned the puppy provider. "Hostilities has erupted," I said. "My family are likely gone. My community was captured by attackers." The return trip was spent searching for friends and family and at the same time guarding my young one from the awful footage that spread across platforms. The images of that day transcended all comprehension. A child from our community seized by several attackers. My former educator transported to the territory using transportation. Friends sent digital recordings that defied reality. My mother's elderly companion likewise abducted across the border. My friend's daughter and her little boys – kids I recently saw – captured by attackers, the terror in her eyes paralyzing. The Long Wait It appeared to take forever for assistance to reach our community. Then started the painful anticipation for information. In the evening, one photograph emerged depicting escapees. My family were not among them. For days and weeks, while neighbors assisted investigators locate the missing, we combed the internet for signs of those missing. We encountered torture and mutilation. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no evidence about his final moments. The Unfolding Truth Gradually, the reality became clearer. My elderly parents – as well as 74 others – were abducted from their home. My parent was in his eighties, my mother 85. During the violence, a quarter of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom. After more than two weeks, my parent left captivity. Before departing, she glanced behind and shook hands of the guard. "Hello," she uttered. That moment – a basic human interaction amid unimaginable horror – was broadcast everywhere. Five hundred and two days following, my parent's physical presence were recovered. He was killed just two miles from our home. The Ongoing Pain These events and their documentation still terrorize me. The two years since – our determined activism to save hostages, my parent's awful death, the ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has intensified the initial trauma. My mother and father were lifelong peace activists. Mom continues, as are many relatives. We recognize that hate and revenge cannot bring even momentary relief from the pain. I write this through tears. With each day, discussing these events grows harder, not easier. The young ones of my friends are still captive with the burden of subsequent events is overwhelming. The Internal Conflict To myself, I term focusing on the trauma "swimming in the trauma". We've become accustomed discussing events to fight for freedom, despite sorrow feels like privilege we cannot afford – and two years later, our efforts endures. Not one word of this account is intended as support for conflict. I continuously rejected this conflict from day one. The population in the territory endured tragedy unimaginably. I'm appalled by government decisions, while maintaining that the organization shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Because I know their actions on October 7th. They abandoned the community – ensuring tragedy on both sides because of their violent beliefs. The Community Split Telling my truth with people supporting the violence feels like betraying my dead. My local circle confronts unprecedented antisemitism, and our people back home has struggled with the authorities for two years and been betrayed multiple times. Across the fields, the destruction across the frontier is visible and painful. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the ethical free pass that various individuals seem to grant to the attackers causes hopelessness.