“I wasn’t there, but I’ll never be the same.” — Amalia Rose Knoll, junior at Jackson Reed High School
October 7th, I wasn’t there, but I’ll never be the same. I’ve contacted friends and family to ensure they’re all right. The safe ones are still distraught; nobody is okay. How could they be okay? Israelis see videos of their babies being tortured and their mothers, sisters, and daughters being raped. They hear the frantic screams of their neighbors being ripped from their beds and the wailing of six-month-old babies already mourning the loss of both their parents. Jews worldwide read news headlines that their friends, cousins, and siblings have been murdered. Thousands of miles away, I can still hear the banging on their doors- the yelling from outside.
“Ima, I don’t wanna die.” A shot to the head, he’s wiped out. Blood streams like rivers engulf the floorboards. His mother and father shriek in horror and despair, but are cut short by two more shots. An entire family is decimated in a matter of seconds. They go around town, killing everyone in sight; fifty years of memorials, a generation of grief.
I open Instagram and I am bombarded by hundreds of posts of the unimaginable. Could people actually be this sadistic? I scroll to see Israeli women being paraded around Gaza with blood between their legs, stripped of their humanity.
I watch a video of a girl who looks to be around my age. Her face smothered in tears and her crotch stained with blood, she walks into a barrage of phlegm. Again and again, terrorists take turns spitting on her.
I see a young woman hysterically crying on the news. After escaping her kibbutz, she received a video from terrorists of her grandmother being slain. Their screams are like nails on a chalkboard. Ingrained in my mind and impossible to escape.
I open Snapchat. There is a text from my best friend.
“Amalia, is your family okay?”
“Yes, they live in central Israel. What about yours?”
“No. My cousin’s kibbutz was attacked. We know one of them was killed, and we think the other is being held hostage by Hamas. “
I cry for the rest of the day. Terrorists killed her family. They marched into their homes and slaughtered them. I mourn the lives of those I’ve never met before, but they’re still my people.
When I walked the streets of Tel Aviv for hours on end during summertime, I certainly passed by some of them. In a million directions, only one degree separates me from knowing someone who has died.
The people that I love in a place that I love are experiencing unmatched terror and sorrow. My heart weighs heavier and heavier every time I read another news headline about the rising death toll of Israelis. Hamas’ murdering of innocent civilians isn’t warranted resistance; it’s terrorism.
I pray for the safety of my family, friends, and people. Please don’t turn a blind eye to our suffering like so many did to our grandparents.
