Two Long Years Following that October Day: As Hate Turned Into Fashion – The Reason Humanity Is Our Best Hope

It started that morning appearing completely ordinary. I journeyed together with my loved ones to pick up a new puppy. Life felt steady – before everything changed.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed updates from the border. I called my mum, expecting her cheerful voice telling me they were secure. No answer. My father didn't respond either. Next, my brother answered – his tone already told me the devastating news prior to he explained.

The Developing Tragedy

I've observed countless individuals through news coverage whose existence were destroyed. Their eyes revealing they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Now it was me. The torrent of tragedy were building, amid the destruction hadn't settled.

My child looked at me across the seat. I moved to reach out in private. By the time we arrived the station, I saw the brutal execution of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the attackers who seized her residence.

I remember thinking: "Not a single of our family would make it."

Later, I witnessed recordings showing fire consuming our residence. Even then, for days afterward, I refused to accept the building was gone – not until my brothers provided images and proof.

The Consequences

Getting to the station, I called the dog breeder. "A war has begun," I told them. "My parents are likely gone. My community was captured by attackers."

The return trip involved trying to contact community members while also guarding my young one from the horrific images that circulated everywhere.

The images of that day were beyond any possible expectation. A child from our community seized by multiple terrorists. My mathematics teacher transported to the territory using transportation.

Friends sent social media clips that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion also taken to Gaza. A woman I knew with her two small sons – kids I recently saw – captured by armed terrorists, the horror apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Long Wait

It appeared interminable for assistance to reach our community. Then started the terrible uncertainty for updates. Later that afternoon, one photograph emerged showing those who made it. My parents were not among them.

For days and weeks, as community members helped forensic teams identify victims, we searched the internet for evidence of our loved ones. We witnessed atrocities and horrors. There was no footage of my father – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Developing Reality

Over time, the reality grew more distinct. My elderly parents – along with numerous community members – were taken hostage from the community. My father was 83, my mother 85. Amid the terror, a quarter of the residents were murdered or abducted.

Over two weeks afterward, my parent emerged from confinement. Prior to leaving, she turned and shook hands of the guard. "Shalom," she spoke. That moment – a simple human connection amid indescribable tragedy – was broadcast everywhere.

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

The Continuing Trauma

These events and the visual proof still terrorize me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign to free prisoners, Dad's terrible fate, the continuing conflict, the devastation in Gaza – has compounded the initial trauma.

Both my parents remained advocates for peace. My parent remains, as are other loved ones. We understand that hostility and vengeance don't offer any comfort from the pain.

I share these thoughts through tears. Over the months, talking about what happened grows harder, not easier. The young ones from my community are still captive and the weight of what followed feels heavy.

The Individual Battle

In my mind, I describe focusing on the trauma "navigating the pain". We typically discussing events to campaign for the captives, though grieving seems unaffordable we cannot afford – now, our work continues.

Not one word of this story represents support for conflict. I have consistently opposed the fighting from the beginning. The residents across the border experienced pain unimaginably.

I am horrified by political choices, while maintaining that the militants are not innocent activists. Having seen their atrocities that day. They abandoned their own people – ensuring tragedy on both sides due to their violent beliefs.

The Social Divide

Sharing my story with those who defend the attackers' actions seems like betraying my dead. My local circle experiences growing prejudice, while my community there has fought with the authorities for two years while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

Looking over, the devastation in Gaza can be seen and painful. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the complete justification that numerous people appear to offer to militant groups causes hopelessness.