Jesse Kline: It's not something that happened nearly eight months ago, it's an enduring trauma that Israelis face on a daily basis

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JERUSALEM — The rift between Israel and countries like Canada fundamentally stems from the flawed belief in the West that October 7 was a singular, finite event — that it ended when the sun rose the following morning — leading to the impression that the continued violence in Gaza cannot be justified. But this is a view that most Israelis can’t reconcile with the reality of everyday life.

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In Israel, displays featuring the hostages taken by Hamas and commemorations to the victims of the October 7 massacre are as ubiquitous as the Israeli flag — a show of the nation’s resolve in the face of great danger, but also the sense of normalcy, along with the 1,200 souls, that were snuffed out on that horrible day.

“Israelis don’t need security,” explained Uzi Dayan, a former Israel Defence Forces general, member of the Knesset and national security advisor, “they need a sense of security.” And this is something they will not have until Hamas no longer poses a threat.

Throughout Israel, the signs of the nation’s collective trauma are pervasive. Visitors to Ben Gurion Airport walk down a ramp with the face of each hostage hanging on the railings. Outside, the air traffic control tower is lit up with a giant yellow ribbon, a symbol of the Israelis who are still being held in captivity. In Tel Aviv, the faces of the missing are plastered on lampposts, walls and even in corporate boardrooms. The road to Jerusalem is littered with signs and graffiti calling for the captives to be brought home immediately.

After arriving in Jerusalem, I travelled to Kfar Aza, one of the hardest-hit communities along the border with Gaza, with a group of foreign journalists on a press tour sponsored by the Jerusalem Press Club.

Despite the 30 C heat, we immediately strapped on flak jackets and combat helmets — a necessary precaution given that the townsite is located a mere 800 metres from the border and visitors have less than 15 seconds to duck into a shelter or drop to the ground when the air-raid sirens sound (which they had done earlier that morning).

From the outside, Kfar Aza looks like an idyllic spot, with palm trees and green grass butting up against the entrance to the gated community. Yet it was at this gate, or one just like it, where two terrorists hid in the foliage and ambushed the first car to pull in, gunning down the driver and passenger in cold blood and allowing Hamas fighters to flood the kibbutz — shooting everything that moved, slaughtering babies in their beds and murdering parents as their frightened children looked on.

These were the scenes I witnessed back in November, when I was shown video of the attack collected from Hamas body cameras, private security footage and other sources. Today, Kfar Aza stands as a monument to the horrors of the October 7 massacre, its burnt-out houses frozen in time on that fateful day.

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This is surely part of an effort to preserve evidence of the atrocities so foreign journalists and dignitaries can bear witness to what happened here. The Israelis, after all, know full well that it doesn’t take long for some people to start denying or downplaying the mass extermination of Jews, no matter how overwhelming the evidence.

But according to Dayan, “The people here hate these visits.” Asked if there had been any talk of rebuilding, Batia Holin, a former resident who survived the attack, said her community can’t even talk about the possibility of rebuilding and resuming a normal life until the hostages are released.

“We don’t know if we’ll come back,” she said. “We must bring the hostages back. Every day they’re there, they kill them, they rape them.”

For Holin and others who used to live in southern Israel, October 7 shattered their sense of security. They don’t believe that the events of that day won’t be repeated in the future, as Hamas has promised to do. Nor can they let their children play in the park so long as the terrorists maintain the ability to rain death and destruction from the sky on a moment’s notice.

In this part of the country in particular, virtually everyone has a story about surviving the attacks, and about loved ones who weren’t so lucky. Even for those who weren’t forced to leave their homes, the wound left by the terrorist onslaught has fundamentally altered their lives.

Later that day, we visited the Salad Trail, a small farm filled with greenhouses growing cherry tomatoes and strawberries that used to make its income from showcasing Israeli agriculture to tourists. Its owner, Uri Alon, said that he came to this plot of land in........

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