🔗 Share this article Two Years Since that October Day: When Animosity Turned Into Fashion – Why Empathy Is Our Best Hope It began on a morning that seemed entirely routine. I was traveling together with my loved ones to collect a new puppy. Everything seemed steady – until it all shifted. Glancing at my screen, I discovered updates from the border. I tried reaching my mother, anticipating her calm response explaining everything was fine. No answer. My father was also silent. Next, my brother answered – his tone already told me the awful reality prior to he said anything. The Developing Nightmare I've observed numerous faces in media reports whose lives were torn apart. Their gaze showing they didn't understand their loss. Then it became our turn. The torrent of tragedy were overwhelming, and the debris was still swirling. My child glanced toward me from his screen. I moved to reach out alone. Once we got to the city, I saw the terrible killing of my childhood caregiver – an elderly woman – broadcast live by the militants who captured her home. I recall believing: "Not a single of our friends could live through this." Eventually, I saw footage revealing blazes bursting through our residence. Even then, in the following days, I denied the house was destroyed – not until my family sent me visual confirmation. The Aftermath Getting to the city, I contacted the kennel owner. "Conflict has started," I explained. "My mother and father are probably dead. Our neighborhood was captured by militants." The ride back involved attempting to reach friends and family and at the same time protecting my son from the awful footage that spread across platforms. The footage during those hours were beyond any possible expectation. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by multiple terrorists. My former educator taken in the direction of the territory on a golf cart. Individuals circulated digital recordings appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted to Gaza. A woman I knew and her little boys – boys I knew well – being rounded up by armed terrorists, the horror apparent in her expression devastating. The Agonizing Delay It felt interminable for assistance to reach the area. Then began the painful anticipation for news. Later that afternoon, a lone picture emerged showing those who made it. My parents were missing. During the following period, as friends assisted investigators identify victims, we searched online platforms for evidence of family members. We saw atrocities and horrors. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no clue regarding his experience. The Developing Reality Over time, the circumstances became clearer. My senior mother and father – together with dozens more – were taken hostage from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. In the chaos, one in four of the residents lost their lives or freedom. Over two weeks afterward, my parent was released from imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she turned and grasped the hand of the militant. "Shalom," she said. That moment – a simple human connection within unspeakable violence – was broadcast globally. More than sixteen months following, Dad's body came back. He was killed only kilometers from the kibbutz. The Persistent Wound These events and the visual proof still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our determined activism to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has intensified the original wound. My family were lifelong peace activists. My parent remains, like many relatives. We understand that hate and revenge cannot bring any comfort from the pain. I write this through tears. Over the months, sharing the experience grows harder, instead of improving. The young ones belonging to companions remain hostages and the weight of subsequent events feels heavy. The Individual Battle Personally, I term focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed sharing our story to campaign for freedom, despite sorrow feels like privilege we cannot afford – after 24 months, our efforts persists. No part of this narrative serves as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed this conflict since it started. The people across the border experienced pain terribly. I am horrified by political choices, yet emphasizing that the organization shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Since I witnessed their atrocities on October 7th. They failed the population – creating pain for all because of their violent beliefs. The Social Divide Telling my truth among individuals justifying what happened appears as failing the deceased. My community here confronts growing prejudice, meanwhile our kibbutz has struggled versus leadership throughout this period facing repeated disappointment again and again. Across the fields, the ruin of the territory can be seen and emotional. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that many seem to grant to the attackers causes hopelessness.