For some, it’s still October 7th

When the attack on October 7th happened, I was at my aunt’s house in Ofakim. We woke up at 6:30 in the morning to the sound of sirens, and all the way to the shelter, I kept thinking about how unpredictable the attack was. Even though the news was running on TV, no explanation was given.

Later that morning, we heard gunfire. I thought that maybe a war had started, but I was sure it was an organized attack and that the IDF was already there, protecting us. I felt surprisingly calm—calm enough to take a nap. I even showered and cooked myself breakfast. My uncle, who was supposed to go bicycling that morning in Be’eri, went outside to walk the puppy. At the time, we still had no idea how dangerous the situation really was.

Our house even appeared on the news—a photo showed many soldiers pressed against our gate, all aiming at the house in front of us, which was still under construction. We heard a rocket fall nearby—the whole house shook. At some point during the day, we decided we should probably close the shutters and doors, especially after the news about Rachel from Ofakim hit.

Even though I was physically present during the entire attack, my mind didn’t fully grasp the reality of what was happening. The next day, I was sure the danger had passed and was eager to go outside. After a week, I felt like I couldn’t stay in the shelter any longer. My parents, who weren’t able to enter Israel on October 8th and were stuck in Turkey after flying from Russia, bought me a plane ticket, and I left the country for a few months.

I felt ashamed for not volunteering and for leaving—but now I understand how necessary that decision was for me. Once I left, I started experiencing intense PTSD and sudden waves of terror. For the first few months, I didn’t let myself feel upset because I knew how lucky I was. I had gotten off easy. My fate could have been very different. But eventually I realized that if I couldn’t even allow myself to live my life, then in a way, the terrorists had won.

And while I was fortunate to receive compensation and the space to process what I’d been through, many others—especially soldiers—were not. They were completely forgotten, left without emotional support, financial aid, or even acknowledgment. With no help, they remain trapped in that horrific day, experiencing the consequences of the attack in silence. The absence of public attention slows their healing and deepens the wounds.

My good friend, who was stationed at the Nahal Oz base on October 8th, experienced severe trauma. As a lone soldier under contract, she never received help from army psychologists or financial support for therapy. She witnessed terrifying scenes—burned and murdered bodies of her friends, heard their screams on the phone as they suffocated in the smoke—and still, no one cared for her.

Every Saturday since, she has spent her time at demonstrations, calling for recognition of the girls from her base who were still being held hostage in Gaza. She still carries the weight of what happened—unsupported and ignored by government and society. And she’s not alone. There are many like her, for whom surviving October 7th didn’t end that day. Some were left entirely on their own to face the trauma—silently and painfully.

These people are not only victims of terror—but also of neglect. To truly honor those who lived through that day, we need to listen to the ones who were forgotten in the dark. They may not have the strength right now to speak loudly for themselves, but we—those who experienced October 7th from a distance—do. And we must use that strength to ensure they are not left in the shadows.