🔗 Share this article Two Years Following that October Day: As Hate Became The Norm – Why Empathy Is Our Sole Hope It began during that morning appearing perfectly normal. I was traveling together with my loved ones to pick up a new puppy. Life felt secure – before everything changed. Opening my phone, I saw reports concerning the frontier. I tried reaching my mother, anticipating her calm response explaining everything was fine. No answer. My parent was also silent. Then, I reached my brother – his voice immediately revealed the devastating news before he spoke. The Unfolding Horror I've seen so many people in media reports whose worlds were torn apart. Their eyes revealing they hadn't yet processed their loss. Now it was me. The floodwaters of violence were rising, amid the destruction remained chaotic. My son glanced toward me over his laptop. I shifted to make calls alone. By the time we got to the city, I encountered the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the terrorists who captured her house. I thought to myself: "Not a single of our friends will survive." Later, I saw footage depicting flames consuming our family home. Even then, in the following days, I denied the home had burned – until my siblings provided visual confirmation. The Aftermath Getting to the city, I phoned the dog breeder. "A war has erupted," I told them. "My parents are probably dead. My community has been taken over by militants." The ride back was spent searching for loved ones and at the same time protecting my son from the terrible visuals that circulated through networks. The images during those hours exceeded all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by several attackers. Someone who taught me driven toward the territory using transportation. Individuals circulated Telegram videos that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend likewise abducted across the border. A woman I knew and her little boys – children I had played with – captured by attackers, the terror apparent in her expression devastating. The Long Wait It appeared to take forever for help to arrive the area. Then started the painful anticipation for updates. In the evening, a lone picture emerged depicting escapees. My mother and father were not among them. Over many days, as friends worked with authorities document losses, we combed digital spaces for signs of our loved ones. We saw torture and mutilation. There was no footage of my father – no evidence concerning his ordeal. The Developing Reality Eventually, the situation emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – along with numerous community members – were abducted from our kibbutz. My father was 83, my other parent was elderly. In the chaos, one in four of our neighbors were murdered or abducted. Over two weeks afterward, my mum was released from confinement. Before departing, she glanced behind and offered a handshake of the militant. "Peace," she spoke. That moment – a basic human interaction within unimaginable horror – was shared worldwide. Five hundred and two days afterward, Dad's body were recovered. He died a short distance from where we lived. The Ongoing Pain These events and their documentation still terrorize me. The two years since – our desperate campaign for the captives, my parent's awful death, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has intensified the original wound. My mother and father were lifelong peace activists. My mother still is, as are most of my family. We understand that hostility and vengeance don't offer the slightest solace from our suffering. I compose these words through tears. Over the months, talking about what happened grows harder, instead of improving. The young ones belonging to companions are still captive and the weight of the aftermath feels heavy. The Personal Struggle To myself, I term dwelling on these events "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed telling our experience to fight for hostage release, while mourning feels like privilege we lack – and two years later, our work continues. Nothing of this story is intended as support for conflict. I have consistently opposed this conflict from day one. The population of Gaza experienced pain terribly. I am horrified by government decisions, but I also insist that the organization are not peaceful protesters. Having seen their actions on October 7th. They abandoned their own people – creating suffering for everyone because of their deadly philosophy. The Personal Isolation Telling my truth with those who defend the violence seems like dishonoring the lost. The people around me confronts unprecedented antisemitism, while my community there has campaigned against its government consistently and been betrayed again and again. From the border, the destruction in Gaza appears clearly and painful. It shocks me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that many seem willing to provide to the organizations makes me despair.