🔗 Share this article Two Years Since the 7th of October: As Hate Transformed Into Fashion – Why Compassion Is Our Only Hope It unfolded on a morning that seemed completely ordinary. I journeyed with my husband and son to collect our new dog. Life felt steady – then everything changed. Opening my phone, I discovered updates concerning the frontier. I dialed my parent, expecting her cheerful voice telling me she was safe. Nothing. My dad was also silent. Then, my sibling picked up – his tone immediately revealed the terrible truth before he said anything. The Developing Nightmare I've witnessed countless individuals through news coverage whose lives had collapsed. Their eyes revealing they couldn't comprehend their tragedy. Then it became our turn. The torrent of violence were overwhelming, with the wreckage hadn't settled. My son looked at me from his screen. I moved to make calls in private. When we got to the city, I would witness the horrific murder of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the attackers who seized her house. I recall believing: "Not a single of our loved ones could live through this." At some point, I witnessed recordings revealing blazes consuming our residence. Despite this, in the following days, I denied the building was gone – before my brothers provided photographs and evidence. The Consequences Getting to the station, I called the dog breeder. "Conflict has begun," I said. "My mother and father may not survive. My community fell to by attackers." The return trip consisted of attempting to reach friends and family and at the same time protecting my son from the horrific images that spread everywhere. The scenes from that day were beyond any possible expectation. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher driven toward the border in a vehicle. Friends sent digital recordings appearing unbelievable. A senior community member also taken to Gaza. My friend's daughter with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – seized by armed terrorists, the fear in her eyes devastating. The Agonizing Delay It felt to take forever for help to arrive the area. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for updates. As time passed, a single image circulated showing those who made it. My parents were missing. For days and weeks, as friends assisted investigators document losses, we combed the internet for evidence of those missing. We saw torture and mutilation. There was no footage of my father – no clue regarding his experience. The Unfolding Truth Gradually, the circumstances emerged more fully. My elderly parents – together with 74 others – were abducted from the community. My father was 83, my mother 85. During the violence, a quarter of our neighbors lost their lives or freedom. Seventeen days later, my mother left imprisonment. Before departing, she glanced behind and shook hands of the militant. "Peace," she uttered. That image – a basic human interaction during indescribable tragedy – was shared globally. Five hundred and two days later, Dad's body were returned. He was murdered only kilometers from where we lived. The Continuing Trauma These experiences and the visual proof continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our determined activism to free prisoners, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the destruction across the border – has intensified the initial trauma. My mother and father had always been advocates for peace. My parent remains, like many relatives. We know that hostility and vengeance won't provide even momentary relief from our suffering. I share these thoughts through tears. As time passes, talking about what happened grows harder, instead of improving. The kids belonging to companions remain hostages and the weight of what followed feels heavy. The Personal Struggle In my mind, I term dwelling on these events "immersed in suffering". We're used to discussing events to fight for freedom, despite sorrow feels like privilege we cannot afford – now, our work continues. No part of this story is intended as justification for war. I've always been against this conflict from the beginning. The residents of Gaza experienced pain unimaginably. I'm shocked by leadership actions, but I also insist that the militants shouldn't be viewed as benign resistance fighters. Because I know their actions that day. They abandoned the population – creating pain for all because of their violent beliefs. The Community Split Telling my truth with those who defend what happened appears as betraying my dead. My local circle confronts rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought versus leadership for two years while experiencing betrayal again and again. Looking over, the devastation across the frontier appears clearly and visceral. It shocks me. At the same time, the ethical free pass that many seem willing to provide to the organizations makes me despair.