What If It Were Me? A Reflection on Shared Humanity and the Horror of October 7th

The images haunt me. Ariel and Kfir Bibas, their bright red hair, their innocent smiles. When I first saw their faces, I couldn’t shake the feeling that they could have been my own brothers. We are close in age, and share a similar background. But for the grace of geography and a twist of fate, their story could have been mine.

I was born in New York City in 2002. They were born in Kibbutz Nir Oz, Israel, Kfir in 2022. The simple accident of birth has created vastly different paths. Yet, the horrors of October 7th, 2023, have erased the distance between us, forging a bond of shared humanity and a chilling understanding of what could have been.

The scale of the October 7th attacks was immense, a wave of barbarity that overwhelmed the senses. So many stories remain untold, buried beneath the weight of the larger tragedy. The Siman Tov family, American-Israelis living in Nir Oz, were murdered in their home, burned alive, their ages ranging from 2 to 35. Their lives were extinguished in a moment of unimaginable cruelty.

The Bibas family, neighbors of the Shem Tovs, were taken hostage. Yarden and Shiri, along with their young sons, Ariel, just four years old, and Kfir, only ten months old, were ripped from their home and plunged into a nightmare. The details are harrowing. Israeli authorities have determined that Shiri and her two young sons were strangled by their captors. Yarden endured over 500 days of captivity in Gaza, subjected to starvation, beatings, and psychological torture. He was finally released as part of a hostages-for-terrorists exchange, but the scars of his ordeal will undoubtedly remain forever.

Throughout Yarden’s captivity, a flicker of hope persisted, the hope that Shiri and the children might one day return home, that Ariel and Kfir might have the chance to grow up, to experience the joys of childhood. Despite the knowledge of the Shem Tov family’s fate and countless other atrocities committed by Hamas, the possibility of their survival lingered.

But as more details emerged, the connection deepened, the sense of shared experience intensified. Photos revealed the similarities: Batman costumes, familiar stuffed animals, the same infectious smiles and laughter. It became impossible to ignore the question that echoed in my mind: what if it had been me?

Would Hamas have kidnapped me and murdered my classmates? Would they have torched my home, raided my preschool? Would they have brutalized my teachers, broadcasting their depravity for the world to witness? Would they have subjected my family to torture, holding my fate as a weapon against my father? Would they have strangled my defenseless brother and me with their bare hands?

Would Palestinians have celebrated, cheering and whistling as Hamas paraded my body in a grotesque display? Would my classmates at the University of Pennsylvania still chant slogans like "Resistance is justified," "Al Qasam make us proud," and "From the river to the sea, Palestine will be Arab"? Would they establish encampments, shouting "You’re next" and "Hamas should do it again" while Jewish students displayed footage of the massacres? Would they lead rallies with PFLP flags and images of Abu Obeida, the Hamas spokesperson?

Would so many of my non-Jewish friends remain silent? Would professors at my university tear down posters bearing my face? Would they celebrate October 7th, tweeting "While we were asleep, Palestine reinvented a new way of life," and marching with posters proclaiming "Victory to the Palestinian resistance"? Would they defend Hamas in debates, attempting to provide an academic and reasonable justification for their actions?

The answer, I believe, is yes. Hamas and its global supporters would have inflicted the same horrors upon my family and me if given the chance. The realization is chilling, a stark reminder of the ever-present threat and the deeply ingrained hatred that fuels it.

Now, I cannot look at their baby photos without seeing my own. And I cannot look at my own without seeing theirs. The connection is permanent, a testament to our shared humanity and the vulnerability we all face in the face of such barbarity.

This feeling is not unique to me. Hamas has kidnapped, terrorized, and murdered people of all ages, backgrounds, nationalities, and religions. Kfir was the youngest hostage, while Shlomo Mantzur was the oldest, at 86. It was recently revealed that Mantzur was also murdered on October 7th, his body held hostage even in death. Hamas targeted farmers, peace advocates, software engineers, and journalists. On October 7th, they attacked anyone they could find, regardless of their background, Jewish, Arab, Muslim, Bedouin, or Christian.

People from more than 25 countries were taken hostage, including American citizens like Edan Alexander, who remains in captivity. The Mapping the Massacres Project provides details of the victims of October 7th. It reveals countless heartbreaking stories, tales of lives shattered and families destroyed. I guarantee that within those stories, you will find echoes of your own life, connections that will resonate with you on a deeply personal level.

The next time you hear chants in the streets, witness the tearing down of hostage posters, or see attempts to intimidate Jewish people, imagine it is you and your immediate family. Imagine yourself in their place, facing the same threats, the same uncertainty, the same fear.

If you have been waiting for the right moment to educate your friends about the realities of Hamas and the dangers of antisemitism, that moment has arrived. If you have been waiting for the right moment to stand in solidarity with Israel, that moment is now. If you have been waiting for the right moment to condemn Hamas’s barbarity and to push back against antisemitism, to raise your voice in defense of humanity, it is now. Silence is complicity. Indifference is betrayal.

We must remember the victims of October 7th. We must honor their memory by fighting against the hatred and violence that took their lives. We must stand together, united in our commitment to peace, justice, and the fundamental right of all people to live in safety and security.

This is not just a Jewish issue. This is a human issue. The lessons of October 7th are clear: silence empowers evil, indifference breeds violence, and only through collective action can we hope to build a more just and peaceful world. Remember Ariel and Kfir Bibas. Remember the Siman Tov family. Remember all the victims of October 7th. And never forget that their story could have been yours.