Two Years Following that October Day: As Hostility Turned Into The Norm – Why Empathy Stands as Our Only Hope

It began on a morning looking completely ordinary. I rode together with my loved ones to welcome a furry companion. Life felt predictable – then everything changed.

Opening my phone, I noticed news about the border region. I tried reaching my parent, hoping for her reassuring tone saying she was safe. Nothing. My dad couldn't be reached. Afterward, my brother answered – his speech already told me the terrible truth before he spoke.

The Unfolding Tragedy

I've observed countless individuals through news coverage whose worlds were destroyed. Their gaze showing they didn't understand their loss. Then it became our turn. The torrent of horror were building, and the debris remained chaotic.

My young one glanced toward me from his screen. I shifted to contact people alone. Once we reached the city, I saw the terrible killing of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – shown in real-time by the attackers who took over her residence.

I remember thinking: "Not a single of our loved ones will survive."

Eventually, I saw footage showing fire bursting through our residence. Despite this, in the following days, I couldn't believe the building was gone – before my siblings provided images and proof.

The Fallout

Getting to our destination, I phoned the kennel owner. "A war has erupted," I explained. "My family may not survive. My community has been taken over by militants."

The journey home involved attempting to reach friends and family while simultaneously protecting my son from the horrific images that circulated through networks.

The footage during those hours were beyond any possible expectation. A child from our community captured by multiple terrorists. My former educator driven toward the territory using transportation.

People shared Telegram videos that defied reality. A senior community member likewise abducted into the territory. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – boys I knew well – captured by attackers, the horror visible on her face stunning.

The Long Wait

It felt interminable for the military to come the kibbutz. Then started the painful anticipation for news. As time passed, one photograph appeared depicting escapees. My family weren't there.

For days and weeks, as friends helped forensic teams identify victims, we combed online platforms for signs of our loved ones. We witnessed brutality and violence. We never found recordings showing my parent – no indication regarding his experience.

The Developing Reality

Gradually, the reality emerged more fully. My elderly parents – together with dozens more – were abducted from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, Mom was 85. During the violence, a quarter of our neighbors were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother was released from imprisonment. As she left, she looked back and offered a handshake of her captor. "Shalom," she spoke. That gesture – a basic human interaction within indescribable tragedy – was transmitted everywhere.

Over 500 days afterward, Dad's body came back. He died just two miles from the kibbutz.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and the visual proof remain with me. Everything that followed – our determined activism for the captives, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has worsened the primary pain.

Both my parents were lifelong advocates for peace. Mom continues, similar to most of my family. We understand that animosity and retaliation won't provide any comfort from this tragedy.

I share these thoughts through tears. Over the months, sharing the experience grows harder, instead of improving. The young ones of my friends remain hostages with the burden of what followed feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I describe focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed discussing events to campaign for hostage release, while mourning seems unaffordable we cannot afford – and two years later, our efforts continues.

Nothing of this story represents support for conflict. I've always been against this conflict since it started. The people in the territory experienced pain terribly.

I'm appalled by leadership actions, but I also insist that the militants cannot be considered peaceful protesters. Because I know what they did that day. They betrayed the community – ensuring pain for all through their murderous ideology.

The Personal Isolation

Sharing my story with people supporting the violence feels like failing the deceased. The people around me faces growing prejudice, while my community there has struggled with the authorities consistently facing repeated disappointment repeatedly.

Looking over, the devastation in Gaza appears clearly and visceral. It horrifies me. At the same time, the complete justification that numerous people seem to grant to the attackers makes me despair.