🔗 Share this article Two Long Years Following that October Day: As Animosity Turned Into Fashion – Why Humanity Stands as Our Best Hope It unfolded that morning appearing perfectly normal. I was traveling with my husband and son to collect our new dog. The world appeared steady – then it all shifted. Opening my phone, I saw reports from the border. I dialed my mother, hoping for her cheerful voice telling me she was safe. Silence. My father couldn't be reached. Next, my brother answered – his voice immediately revealed the terrible truth prior to he said anything. The Unfolding Tragedy I've observed countless individuals through news coverage whose existence were torn apart. Their expressions demonstrating they hadn't yet processed their tragedy. Now it was me. The torrent of violence were overwhelming, with the wreckage was still swirling. My son watched me from his screen. I shifted to reach out in private. Once we reached our destination, I saw the horrific murder of a woman from my past – an elderly woman – shown in real-time by the attackers who took over her home. I recall believing: "None of our loved ones will survive." At some point, I viewed videos depicting flames consuming our family home. Nonetheless, for days afterward, I refused to accept the home had burned – before my siblings provided photographs and evidence. The Fallout Getting to the city, I called the dog breeder. "Conflict has erupted," I explained. "My parents are likely gone. Our kibbutz has been taken over by attackers." The return trip was spent attempting to reach community members and at the same time shielding my child from the awful footage that circulated across platforms. The scenes from that day exceeded all comprehension. A child from our community seized by several attackers. Someone who taught me transported to the border on a golf cart. Individuals circulated digital recordings that defied reality. A senior community member also taken across the border. A woman I knew with her two small sons – children I had played with – captured by militants, the horror visible on her face stunning. The Painful Period It seemed interminable for help to arrive the area. Then began the agonizing wait for updates. In the evening, one photograph circulated showing those who made it. My family were not among them. For days and weeks, as friends worked with authorities identify victims, we searched online platforms for evidence of family members. We saw brutality and violence. We never found footage of my father – no evidence concerning his ordeal. The Developing Reality Eventually, the reality emerged more fully. My elderly parents – along with dozens more – became captives from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my mother 85. Amid the terror, one in four of the residents were killed or captured. Seventeen days later, my mum was released from imprisonment. As she left, she looked back and shook hands of her captor. "Shalom," she uttered. That gesture – a simple human connection during unspeakable violence – was broadcast everywhere. Five hundred and two days following, my parent's physical presence were returned. He was murdered a short distance from our home. The Continuing Trauma These tragedies and their documentation continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our urgent efforts to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the destruction across the border – has worsened the primary pain. My mother and father were lifelong peace activists. My parent remains, like most of my family. We know that animosity and retaliation cannot bring any comfort from our suffering. I share these thoughts while crying. As time passes, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, not easier. The young ones belonging to companions are still captive with the burden of the aftermath remains crushing. The Individual Battle To myself, I call remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed discussing events to fight for the captives, while mourning remains a luxury we cannot afford – now, our work continues. No part of this account serves as endorsement of violence. I continuously rejected hostilities from the beginning. The people across the border experienced pain terribly. I am horrified by political choices, yet emphasizing that the organization are not benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed their atrocities during those hours. They betrayed the community – creating suffering for everyone because of their deadly philosophy. The Personal Isolation Sharing my story among individuals justifying the violence feels like failing the deceased. My local circle confronts growing prejudice, while my community there has fought with the authorities throughout this period while experiencing betrayal again and again. From the border, the devastation in Gaza is visible and painful. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that various individuals seem to grant to militant groups causes hopelessness.