One Year After Oct. 7: Five People Share Their Story of Loss and Pain

On October 7th 2023, Hamas militants attacked multiple communities and military bases along Israel’s southern fence with Gaza. 1,205 people were killed, including 36 children. The Hamas also took 251 hostages. 

On October 8, 2023, Israel’s security cabinet formally declared war against Hamas. Since then, 117 hostages have been returned alive to Israel, and Israeli Defence Forces have killed more than 41,000 Palestinians including over 15,000 children. Thousands more Palestinians are believed to be trapped under the rubble and nearly the entire population of Gaza has been displaced. 

La Converse spoke to five people in Israel, Gaza, Egypt, Montreal and Toronto about how their lives have changed profoundly since. 

Yonatan Zeigen

Yonatan Zeigen is a social worker and mediator in Tel Aviv whose 74-year-old mother, Vivian Silver, was killed on October 7. Today, Zeigen continues his mother's peace-building work through The Parents Circle-Families Forum, based in Beit Jala and Ramat Ef’al, a grassroots organization of Palestinian and Israeli families who have lost immediate family members due to the conflict. Here, he reflects on the moments leading up to her death while she hid in a closet on Kibbutz Be'eri.

"In the beginning, we talked and texted throughout the morning. We stayed pretty calm and just tried to pass the time. We continued joking with each other. Then, at a certain point, it became clear that the Israeli army wasn't coming and that it wasn't just Hamas taking control of the kibbutz; it was a massacre. So, we were able to say goodbye to each other with the understanding that it was the final goodbye. The last message she wrote to me was when Hamas was inside the house. 

What Hamas did on October 7, and what Israel has been doing in Gaza since is the outcome of living in a conflict and of continuing occupation. And if we want a different reality, we need to behave differently - not more of the same.

My mother was very busy all the time. She worked a lot and was devoted to many causes and initiatives. But as her son, I always felt I was the most important thing in her life. That was the kind of woman she was.

In my early 20s, I went to study law to become a human rights lawyer. I faded out of it when my first child was born. I gave up the idea that I could impact anything and became a social worker.

But since October 7, I have felt a need and a responsibility to become involved and to use my voice to be invested in change. If my mother had survived today, I could imagine her saying very clearly that vengeance is not a strategy and that the only way for Israel to be secure is through peace. She would be very active in trying to stop the war and reach a holistic agreement.

Before October 7, I tried to lead a normal life of working as a social worker raising my kids, but I always felt a sense of alienation, and I didn't put my finger on why. Now, thinking about what I do, I feel very connected to it. 

I meet Palestinians all the time now. It's weird because we have very easy and natural relationships. It's so simple, and we can't get it in a communal context. If I can sit with a Palestinian who lost loved ones as well, and we can foster a relationship, then anybody should do that. It's frustrating that we can't do it as entire people, but it also proves that it's possible, and it's very simple, right?

I'm investing myself now in the only thing that matters in Israel, Palestine. Nothing else makes a difference unless we end the occupation and solve the conflict. In that sense, I feel fulfilled that I'm able to do what I do. I wish I didn't have to. I wish we would live in a context where this wasn't relevant."

Hamza Banar

Hamza Banar is 18 and a first-year design and multimedia editing student from Al-Azhar University. He was displaced with his family, originally living in the Al-Shujaiya neighbourhood in central Gaza.

"After October 7th, the war began and crushed everything. It destroyed my education, my future, my university, and the house in which we lived. We were displaced from the north to the south. First, we arrived at Deir Al-Balah [a camp on Gaza's seashore] following several types of forced displacement. We became exhausted and responsible for everything, such as getting food, filling water from long distances and going to the market to reach the outside world.

Our tent is a small 4x4 space, including a kitchen, bathroom, sleeping and living space, yet my family consists of eight members. Food and water are a struggle to obtain as their unavailability increases.

The bombings continued, yet we tried to adapt. We were not even able to complete our first week at the Tel Al-Hawa School we attended. Soon after, we were told to immediately leave from Gaza City and go to the south, known as the safe humanitarian region. We moved to the city of Al-Nusairat and went to [shelter in] the Khaled Bin Al-Walid School, but we were still not safe. Many days passed. We could not sleep because of the severity of the bombs and smoke that were thrown at the school. On December 27th, artillery was used on the school, forcing us to evacuate the area again.

We escaped from the city on foot, leaving all our belongings without a specific destination. We finally stayed at a relative's house for two days, and then built our tent in Deir Al-Balah, in which we are living now.

I feel very sad about what's happened to our home. We had beautiful memories with my family, relatives, and neighbours. We dream of returning one day."

Donations to Banar's family can be made at https://chuffed.org/project/hamzafund

Raquel Look

Raquel Look is a Montrealer of the Jewish faith. On October 7, her son Alexandre was killed while attending the Supernova festival in the Negev desert in southern Israel. Here, she recounts how this date drastically changed her view of the world.

“On October 7, I received a call from my son, who was on vacation in Israel. He had travelled to attend the music festival. In the early hours of the morning, he called me and said they'd been attacked by rockets and were heading for a shelter. 

Before October 7, I often went to Israel with my whole family. I remember missile fire and threats of terrorism being commonplace. “Aren't you used to this?” I had said to my son on the other end of the phone. “No, but this time it's really intense,” he replied.

The call lasted for almost an hour and a half. At one point, Hamas terrorists arrived, and there was a lot of commotion. It was in sheer panic. I still remember Alexandre's attempt to negotiate with the arriving terrorists, armed to the teeth, in the few Arabic words he knew, unfortunately, to no avail. Alexandre was killed by those who had come to terrorize the young festival-goers. 

When the emergency services arrived at the shelter where my son lost his life, they found him with his arms in an embrace, as if he were still protecting someone. 

Today, I'm scared. When I walk through the streets of my city and see hundreds of people demonstrating with keffiyehs that show only their eyes, I think of those who cowardly took my son's life.

For me, October 7 is a date that must never be forgotten. It was a violent attempt on the lives of people who only wanted to have fun, leaving behind their mothers in mourning. Last August, the mayor of the Côte-Saint-Luc borough agreed to dedicate a square to honour my son.”

Mohammed R. Mhawish

Mohammed R Mhawish is a Palestinian journalist from Gaza City, having fled to Cairo in May with his wife and two children after Israeli bombardment. In December, Mhawish’s family survived the bombardment of their home.

"On October 7, the lives of my family and I were changed forever. In a matter of seconds, all I felt was being trapped under what was the weight of the ceiling pressed down upon my family and me. When I came to consciousness, the first thing I remember was hearing voices. Even during that time, all I cared about was my family and making sure they were safe. The blood was gushing from my arms, and my shattered fingers. 

As time passed, I remembered people explaining to me what happened. My whole family had sustained injuries, but I remember my son most vividly, screaming, his face matted with blood and dust as strangers tried to clean him up.

Medical care was hard to access, as hospitals were crippled by bombings and a shortage of supplies led to infections and death. Moving through northern Gaza risks being shot or caught in gunfire, yet hundreds of thousands remain despite Israeli orders to leave. Infection was a constant fear, and we had to clean wounds with scorching water. 

A week passed, and our health improved, but the bombardment continued. On December 14, our neighbourhood was hit by an intense air artillery strike. The injured were left behind, as stopping to help meant certain death.

Over the last year, I can't detach myself from what's happening because I'm still part of the on-the-ground reality in Gaza, both as a journalist and as a resident of Gaza. On a personal level, I still have loved ones. I still have family members, I still have friends, I still have people very close to my heart, and they're still enduring famine, bombardment, and displacement. 

My first child, Rafiq, who is three years old now, slept nights crying himself to sleep from hunger, cold, and malnutrition in Gaza.

As Palestinians, we don't have a choice to be resilient or not. We are forced [to be resilient] because that's part of our daily reality. We have to face what's happening. Everyday you wake up faced with the worst version of the same challenges, yet you have to find a new way of living, of navigating life and death, of surviving the bombs while also making jokes to your children so they do not sleep afraid or scared.” 

Dr Yipeng Ge

Dr Yipeng Ge is a primary care physician and public health practitioner. He was previously a resident physician at the University of Ottawa's Faculty of Medicine. Last November, the university suspended Ge over pro-Palestinian social media posts. In February this year, he travelled to Gaza with a team of doctors from the aid groups Humanity Auxilium and Glia.

"When they suspended me, I was still working with my patients; many people don't know and appreciate that. My clinic director at the time reached out to me and was so supportive, and I was also so frustrated by how these institutions treated me. Ultimately, they didn't understand public health, that I've trained in settler colonial determinants of health and understand the question of Palestine from settler colonialism and Zionist settler colonialism. I did that during my Master of Public Health degree from the Palestine Program under the Health and Human Rights Department at Harvard University. If they had just reached out and said, 'Hey, we saw these social media posts and have some questions. Can we have a conversation?' Instead, they chose not to have a conversation whatsoever and to suspend me and say: 'You are a danger to yourself and others, which is blatant anti-Palestinian racism, right?'

I would not have thought people would go to such lengths to destroy and attack one's character and integrity. To have different views is one thing, and to talk about it… but people didn't even want to talk about it. Quite ironic in the academic space, right?

I was born in China. At age four, I came to so-called Canada and grew up in Waterloo, Ontario. I had a lot of opportunities and privileges growing up there. It is steps away from Six Nations of the Grand River, the largest First Nations reservation in Canada. They do not have clean drinking water. It really hit me: what is my role as someone who has Canadian citizenship, who has benefited from this stolen land, from the genocide of Indigenous peoples, from settler colonialism in the context of Canada? Now that I've learned about that, what do I do about it? That was a huge turning point. I chose to lean into it, and that's been my driving force ever since.

My parents are very supportive. They've also been learning a lot, which has given them insight into what I've been doing all these years and helped them tie together the pieces. They've gone to the student encampment and protests for Palestine, and my dad now brings back watermelon pins from China, where he works, so I give those to people. I had a keffiyeh jacket that got frayed once, and my mom said, 'I can fix that up for you'.

People say Gaza and Palestine are teaching us life, and it's very true. The irony of Palestinians experiencing a genocidal campaign that is trying to wipe them and their community and their people off the face of this earth. They practice so much life and humanity in the face of that, and they choose love and compassion. The first night, when I got to Gaza, they immediately brought us food and water, and I just started sobbing for 10-15 minutes uncontrollably. I was like, 'Oh my God, what am I doing? These people have been through hell, and I don't want them to have to hold me in my grief and emotions.’"