Opinion
To my fellow British Muslims: listen to the survivors of the Hamas October 7 attacks
Empathy does not require political agreement, but it does create the conditions for dialogue
January 16, 2026 13:57
3 min read
Empathy does not require political agreement, but it does create the conditions for dialogue
January 16, 2026 13:57Since October 7, I have been struck by how little space there has been within British Muslim public discourse for grappling seriously with the horror unleashed by Hamas on that day. That absence has stayed with me. It is one of the reasons I chose to come to Israel of my own volition, with a quiet hope that if even a small number of British Muslims were to read this, or other reflections from my visit, they might pause and begin to empathise with those who were brutalised that day.
Empathy does not require political agreement, but it does create the conditions for dialogue. At a moment when the Middle East conflict has been imported into British streets, campuses, and public life – often in ways that have raised tensions and deepened divisions – such empathy can help re-anchor debate in shared humanity.
One of the most difficult conversations I had was with a survivor of the Nova music festival. After listening to his account, I needed several hours to process the trauma he had recalled—trauma that clearly still lives within him. Shaun Lemel was just 24 years old at the time. Like many young Israelis, he went to Nova to dance, to experience music, connection, and freedom as the sun rose over the beautiful horizon. It was meant to be a moment of joy and youth. Instead, it became a scene of terror.
At 6:29am on October 7th, Hamas rockets rained down on the festival, abruptly stopping the music. Debris and shrapnel fell among the crowd as Israel’s Iron Dome intercepted incoming fire. Shaun remembers that his friend Nadav jumped over him, likely saving his life from falling debris.
What he remembers from this day is fragmented and harrowing. He recalls the sound of gunfire all around him. At around 8:30am, he and his friends managed to get into a vehicle to escape. As they did so, Hamas fighters poured in from all sides, shooting indiscriminately—killing anyone within their line of sight. Young people who had come to celebrate life were hunted down by extremists driven by carnage.
Shaun and his friends survived by chance. At one junction they turned left rather than right, unknowingly avoiding a kibbutz that would later suffer catastrophic losses. More than 4,000 Hamas gunmen crossed into southern Israel that morning, attacking homes, families, and communities.
As Shaun spoke, he described the loss of young lives, the desecration of bodies, and the cruelty inflicted with apparent ease. Over 400 people were murdered at Nova, from around 1,500 attendees. He also spoke of another devastating reality: some Nova survivors have since taken their own lives, overwhelmed by the psychological aftermath of what they endured. Trauma does not always end when the gunfire stops.
The impact of October 7 is felt everywhere in Israel. The country has fundamentally changed—more vigilant, more resolute, and more willing to act decisively against perceived threats. This collective shift is not born of ideology, but of shock and a deep desire that Israel will never again be caught out militarily.
During my travels, I also met Eliza and Shlomo Shlouss, who run a small bed-and-breakfast in Khoshen, a village in the Galilee near Ma’alot-Tarshiha. The landscape around them includes Muslim, Christian Arab, and Druze villages—communities living in close proximity. Eliza and Shlomo chose to stay when Hezbollah rockets were repeatedly fired overhead from Lebanon.
Eliza spoke quietly about living in fear, keeping the shutters of their business closed, and repeatedly sheltering with her husband in their bomb shelter. The Israeli military later discovered tunnels from Lebanon into nearby areas, stocked with weapons and motorcycles—clear evidence of intent to infiltrate Israeli villages. Shlomo even constructed a makeshift wooden barricade at home, fearing a repeat of what Hamas had done in the south.
What struck me most, however, was how interconnected the trauma is. Eliza told me about a close friend’s daughter who survived the Nova attack by hiding under dead bodies for seven hours. That survivor’s friend was Hersh Goldberg-Polin, who was taken hostage. While sheltering in a bomb shelter, he threw back grenades that Hamas fighters had thrown inside. One exploded, costing him an arm. He was later killed in Hamas captivity in Gaza—another life extinguished by brutality.
These are not abstract stories. They are human stories of fear, courage, grief, resilience and survival. They are stories that British Muslims should hear—and make the effort to hear. Some may turn away, pointing to the immense civilian suffering in Gaza, which is also devastating and deeply painful. Holding empathy for Israelis does not negate compassion for Palestinians. Our moral capacity is not so limited.
What makes us human is our ability to witness pain without hierarchy—to care about suffering wherever it occurs. Listening to Israeli victims of October 7, acknowledging their trauma, and allowing ourselves to feel their pain is not betrayal. It is moral integrity.
If this message reaches even one British Muslim and invites reflection, then it has served a purpose. Being Muslim means many things. To me, it means standing with those who have been wronged, regardless of who they are. On October 7, Israelis—Jews, Muslims, and Christians—were attacked by the barbarity of Hamas. To bear witness to that truth is not political. It is human.
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