https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1gIEqQ3R8AU
I was born and raised in Israel in the late 80s and 90s, part of a generation that clung to hope. We were raised on the dream of peace. We sang about it in school, we watched the Oslo Accords unfold on TV, and we truly believed that maybe, just maybe, our generation would be the one to see the end of war.
But reality had other plans. We lived through the first and second intifadas. We grew up with suicide bombings on buses, cafés, and city streets. We knew what it meant to check under our seats on a bus, We learned to be alert, to scan crowds, to live with loss.
And yet, through it all, we kept believing that peace was still possible. That we were progressing.
Then came October 7th, Hamas terrorists, accompanied by teenagers and even elders, some in flip-flops, walked into Israeli kibbutzim with weapons and hate. They killed, maimed, raped, and destroyed every trace of innocence they found. They didn’t distinguish between soldiers and civilians. They butchered entire families in their beds.
What they destroyed that day wasn’t just human life. They obliterated any remaining hope for peace. They revealed a level of brutality that left even the most optimistic among us stunned into silence.
Now I find myself in a position where I have to defend my people people who were brutally murdered, mutilated, and raped simply because some so-called “woke” voices have the audacity to accuse us of committing a holocaust.
Let that sink in: