24 Months Following October 7th: When Hostility Turned Into Trend – Why Humanity Stands as Our Sole Hope

It started that morning appearing completely ordinary. I journeyed accompanied by my family to welcome our new dog. Life felt steady – until everything changed.

Glancing at my screen, I discovered reports concerning the frontier. I tried reaching my parent, expecting her calm response telling me everything was fine. Silence. My dad didn't respond either. Then, my sibling picked up – his tone immediately revealed the devastating news even as he said anything.

The Developing Nightmare

I've seen so many people through news coverage whose worlds were destroyed. Their expressions revealing they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Suddenly it was us. The deluge of tragedy were building, amid the destruction was still swirling.

My young one glanced toward me over his laptop. I moved to contact people alone. By the time we got to our destination, I saw the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – an elderly woman – as it was streamed by the militants who took over her house.

I recall believing: "None of our family could live through this."

At some point, I witnessed recordings showing fire bursting through our family home. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I refused to accept the home had burned – before my family sent me images and proof.

The Aftermath

Upon arriving at our destination, I called the kennel owner. "A war has begun," I told them. "My family may not survive. My community was captured by attackers."

The return trip involved searching for friends and family while simultaneously shielding my child from the awful footage that spread across platforms.

The scenes of that day were beyond anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor captured by several attackers. My former educator driven toward Gaza on a golf cart.

People shared Telegram videos that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion likewise abducted across the border. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – seized by militants, the fear apparent in her expression devastating.

The Long Wait

It appeared endless for assistance to reach the area. Then began the painful anticipation for updates. As time passed, one photograph appeared of survivors. My parents were missing.

Over many days, while neighbors assisted investigators document losses, we combed digital spaces for evidence of our loved ones. We encountered brutality and violence. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no evidence regarding his experience.

The Emerging Picture

Gradually, the circumstances became clearer. My aged family – together with 74 others – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. During the violence, one in four of the residents were murdered or abducted.

After more than two weeks, my mother was released from confinement. Before departing, she glanced behind and shook hands of the guard. "Shalom," she uttered. That moment – an elemental act of humanity during unspeakable violence – was broadcast globally.

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

The Continuing Trauma

These tragedies and their documentation still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, my parent's awful death, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has intensified the original wound.

Both my parents were lifelong campaigners for reconciliation. My parent remains, as are other loved ones. We know that animosity and retaliation don't offer any comfort from the pain.

I compose these words while crying. Over the months, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, not easier. The children from my community are still captive and the weight of what followed feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

Personally, I term remembering what happened "swimming in the trauma". We typically sharing our story to fight for freedom, while mourning feels like privilege we lack – after 24 months, our campaign endures.

Not one word of this story serves as justification for war. I have consistently opposed this conflict since it started. The people of Gaza experienced pain beyond imagination.

I am horrified by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the attackers shouldn't be viewed as peaceful protesters. Because I know their atrocities that day. They failed their own people – creating tragedy on both sides through their deadly philosophy.

The Personal Isolation

Telling my truth with those who defend what happened appears as failing the deceased. My local circle faces rising hostility, while my community there has campaigned versus leadership for two years and been betrayed multiple times.

Looking over, the destruction in Gaza is visible and visceral. It horrifies me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that numerous people seem to grant to the organizations creates discouragement.