🔗 Share this article Two Long Years Following that October Day: When Hostility Transformed Into Trend – The Reason Empathy Is Our Only Hope It began on a morning looking perfectly normal. I journeyed accompanied by my family to pick up a new puppy. The world appeared secure – then reality shattered. Opening my phone, I saw reports from the border. I called my mother, anticipating her calm response explaining they were secure. Silence. My dad couldn't be reached. Afterward, I reached my brother – his voice already told me the devastating news before he said anything. The Developing Nightmare I've witnessed countless individuals on television whose worlds had collapsed. Their eyes revealing they couldn't comprehend their loss. Now it was me. The floodwaters of tragedy were overwhelming, with the wreckage remained chaotic. My son looked at me across the seat. I moved to reach out in private. When we reached the station, I would witness the brutal execution of my childhood caregiver – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the attackers who took over her residence. I recall believing: "None of our loved ones could live through this." Eventually, I saw footage showing fire bursting through our house. Despite this, for days afterward, I denied the house was destroyed – until my family sent me visual confirmation. The Fallout Upon arriving at the city, I phoned the dog breeder. "Conflict has started," I explained. "My parents are probably dead. Our kibbutz has been taken over by terrorists." The journey home was spent searching for loved ones and at the same time guarding my young one from the horrific images that circulated everywhere. The images of that day were beyond anything we could imagine. A child from our community captured by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher transported to the border in a vehicle. People shared digital recordings that defied reality. A senior community member also taken into the territory. A woman I knew accompanied by her children – kids I recently saw – seized by militants, the fear visible on her face devastating. The Agonizing Delay It felt endless for the military to come our community. Then began the painful anticipation for updates. Later that afternoon, one photograph appeared depicting escapees. My family weren't there. For days and weeks, while neighbors assisted investigators identify victims, we scoured the internet for traces of family members. We encountered torture and mutilation. We never found recordings showing my parent – no evidence regarding his experience. The Developing Reality Eventually, the circumstances became clearer. My elderly parents – along with 74 others – were abducted from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. Amid the terror, one in four of the residents were killed or captured. Seventeen days later, my parent left captivity. Prior to leaving, she turned and offered a handshake of her captor. "Hello," she spoke. That image – a simple human connection during indescribable tragedy – was transmitted everywhere. More than sixteen months following, my father's remains were returned. He was murdered only kilometers from the kibbutz. The Continuing Trauma These experiences and their documentation still terrorize me. The two years since – our urgent efforts for the captives, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the destruction across the border – has intensified the original wound. My family had always been peace activists. My mother still is, similar to many relatives. We understand that animosity and retaliation won't provide any comfort from our suffering. I share these thoughts amid sorrow. With each day, discussing these events intensifies in challenge, rather than simpler. The kids belonging to companions are still captive along with the pressure of the aftermath remains crushing. The Personal Struggle Personally, I call dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed discussing events to advocate for hostage release, despite sorrow remains a luxury we lack – and two years later, our efforts continues. Not one word of this narrative is intended as endorsement of violence. I've always been against this conflict from day one. The population in the territory have suffered beyond imagination. I am horrified by political choices, yet emphasizing that the attackers are not innocent activists. Having seen their atrocities that day. They betrayed their own people – ensuring tragedy on both sides through their violent beliefs. The Community Split Telling my truth with people supporting what happened appears as dishonoring the lost. The people around me confronts rising hostility, while my community there has struggled with the authorities throughout this period and been betrayed multiple times. Looking over, the devastation in Gaza is visible and emotional. It shocks me. At the same time, the moral carte blanche that various individuals seem willing to provide to the organizations creates discouragement.