Three years on from 7 October, we demand peace, security, freedom, and equality for all
London Friends of Standing Together held a vigil on Sunday 4 October to mark three years since the 7 October massacres, and the brutally destructive assault on Gaza which followed. Here, we collate speeches from the event. Pictures and video will also be added.
Click to read the speeches:
Talia Sofizade
Abdalrahman
Yaniv Aknin
Talia Sofizade
In three days, we will commemorate the anniversary of October 7th.
For Jews and Israelis, it was the day the world as many of us knew it changed forever. It brought ancestral trauma to the surface that we have not even had a generation to bury.
For Palestinians, October 7th and what followed marked the beginning of an escalation in an already unbearable reality.
At 6:29am, Hamas-led forces breached the Israeli border and attacked the Nova music festival and surrounding kibbutzim. Around 1,200 people were killed and 251 people were abducted to Gaza. Survivors have shared testimony of sexual violence, torture, starvation and other forms of abuse.
For Hamas, it did not matter whether their victims believed in coexistence or where they were from. It did not matter whether they were Jewish or Muslim. They were in Israel, and that was enough.
Lifelong peace activist Vivian Silver was murdered in her home in Kibbutz Be’eri.
Abed Al-Rahman and his fiancée Yulia Chaban were murdered while camping near Zikim Beach. Abed was a Bedouin Muslim. Yulia was Jewish. They were planning to marry.
And the Bibas family.
Shiri and her two children, Kfir, ten months old, and Ariel, four years old, were abducted from Kibbutz Nir Oz and later murdered in captivity.
Her two boys had the most beautiful red hair. Ariel loved to dress up as Batman.
Their father, Yarden Bibas, was returned alone in a hostage deal in February 2025.
After October 7th, Israelis faced a multi-front war that displaced thousands of families from their homes. Some communities have still not returned.
And we have watched as in the diaspora people chose to celebrate, deny or diminish our trauma: online, in the streets, and sometimes in places where we once felt we belonged.
And yet we do not acknowledge Israeli suffering while turning away from that of Palestinians.
For Palestinians, Hamas’s attack was followed by an Israeli military campaign on a scale that has brought catastrophic destruction and civilian suffering to Gaza.
Thousands of families have lost loved ones and homes and at least 1.3 million people have faced displacement and struggled to access basic necessities, including food, water and safety.
This includes the families of our dear members, Abdalrahman and Wasim who are still trying to escape.
And then there was Hind Rajab.
Hind was five years old when she was killed alongside members of her family as they attempted to flee Gaza City. The two paramedics who went to rescue her were also killed.
Hind is one of over 21,000 children reported to have been killed in Gaza.
And even during periods described as ceasefires, civilians have continued to be killed.
In the West Bank, Palestinians continue to live under occupation, while settler violence has reached devastating levels.
Settler terrorism and the repeated neglect of the Israeli authorities to protect civilians, including peace activists, has been widely documented by Palestinians, Israelis and international activists alike.
Awdah Hathaleen was a Palestinian writer, storyteller and huge Real Madrid fan. He collaborated on the film No Other Land in 2025, and was killed by a settler trying to document an attack in his hometown. He left behind his wife and three children.
And just three days ago, a group of Palestinians and Standing Together activists doing protective presence were attacked by settlers with stones and clubs. Three had to be taken to hospital.
For Palestinian citizens of Israel, there is another reality we cannot ignore.
Gang-related violence has devastated their communities. Until October alone, 140 Arab citizens have reportedly been killed in criminal violence.
None of these are competing tragedies. They are human tragedies.
Today, as friends of Standing Together we bring Standing Together’s message here: This status quo is not sustainable. It is not just. Palestinians deserve rights, freedom, safety and security. And Israelis deserve rights, freedom, safety and security.
Because rights without security are not enough. And security without freedom is not enough.
We cannot have a just peace on the basis that Palestinians surrender their humanity for the sake of Israeli security.
Neither of our peoples can defeat extremism by allowing it to define our societies.
We cannot keep burying our children whilst arguing over who’s grief is permitted or who has a more legitimate claim to the land.
Today we stand together in vigil and in protest to remember every innocent person killed over these past three years and say that Palestinian and Israeli lives are worth the same.
We can stand together against terrorism, against antisemitism and Islamophobia.
We stand against extremist ideologies that tell us the other side is less human.
And we demand something that should never have been radical: A political solution and leadership that will try and lead our peoples to it, instead of deeper into this horrific cycle of violence.
We demand equality for all. A future where neither people has to live in fear of the other. So when we say, "Between the river and the sea", we are not calling for one people to disappear. We are calling for a future where everyone can live with freedom, dignity, equality and security.
And we say together: Between the river and the sea, we demand a just peace.
Until we do not have to say it any longer.
Thank you for joining us in this vigil and protest today.
Abdalrahman
Hello everyone. This is Abdalrahman from Gaza.
Today, I want to speak not only as a Palestinian but also as a father, whose whole family is still there in Gaza, suffering.
I miss my wife and my children. I miss my mother and brothers. Three years passed, and people are still suffering in Gaza. My family are still suffering and struggling to survive. To find food and water is a very challenging issue. We only want to live in peace, I care about my family and I care about all lives. Every single life is important, and everyone has the right to live free and in dignity.
I lost a son in this war, and I don't want to lose anyone else. I want everyone else to stay alive and safe.
We should keep going and never give up. It's time to end the conflict and stop all kinds of violence. All people around the world should be united today to make sure we take steps towards peace.
Yaniv Aknin
My name is Yaniv. A quick intro, if you haven’t heard me here before. I was born in 1980 in Tel Aviv, where I lived a typical Israeli life. In 2013 I left the country I loved for fear of where it’s heading, and moved to Clapham, where my very Israeli wife and I try to raise two very English boys.
I was asked to reflect on what the last three years meant for me personally. I’d like to start this reflection by reading the closing paragraph from my father’s eulogy. I read this at his grave three years ago, the 26th of October 2023, after having flown from here to there, to a country in absolute shock and grief, we didn’t know exactly how many died, how many were abducted, a country under constant sirens and rocket fire. I said:
The situation in Israel is grievous, and the future is shrouded in darkness.Now of all times my father died, and perhaps my sister is right that his heart couldn’t stand the events in Gaza. Maybe, maybe. I always felt, but now I realise much more, that you were to me a father but also you were Israel.Who’s more Israeli than Tzachi, the מסתערב, the father, the businessman, the Westerner and the Easterner. I have a lot to say about this but I’m not saying a thing, both because we don’t have time but also because I really don’t know what to say.
The word מסתערב literally means “one who becomes Arab”. It means “undercover commando which can pass as Palestinian”, which my dad was, but also “Arabic-speaking Jews native to the land”, which he was as well. I was none of these things. Look at me. I’m not a commando, I’m a computer geek, my time in the IDF was with a keyboard, not a gun. Three years ago, I could hardly speak a word of Arabic. To add insult to injury I’m barely Jewish, as my dad enjoyed pointing out.
I said the situation is grievous and the future is shrouded in darkness. Indeed these were three extremely dark years. Years of death and destruction, years of rampant corruption, genocidal revenge, and messianic lunacy. The entire region is shrouded in darkness. But perhaps now is the time to finish the thought from my dad’s eulogy, and perhaps now I know what to say.
In his fantastic book Before the War, After the War, Hillel Cohen wrote:
But I don't forget that miracles have a very human aspect: a moment in which individual human beings see each other, recognize each other. A moment in which the humane and everyday feelings overcome the drive to cling to the sublime mission of liberating the homeland, or subjugating the world to the Islamist order or Jew-ist order or whatever ideology. The “small” overcomes the “big”. After all, we all live simultaneously in both the small time and the big time. We all live in the light of myths and a sense of destiny, and also in our daily lives and the ordinary relationships with the people around us. The big time can summon great deeds from a person, give him deep meaning — but it can also lead him to trample and destroy. Blessed is he who, when necessary, lets the small time rule over the big.
Of course, of course, the small time must triumph over the big. One of the darkest things in those three years is how complete the triumph is of the big time, and the atrocities that it allowed.
But I spend a lot of time thinking about Israel of 25 years ago or of 50 years ago, the IDF I served in, the IDF my dad served in. The conflict was never “good” or “just”. Not in the 2nd Intifada and not the 1st, and not in 1967 not in 1948… it was never good. But in my living memory I remember a time when the small overcame the big a lot more often. All my dad’s stories from the army, all his stories from Gaza, were small time stories. His most cherished memories were about finding ways to fraternise with Palestinians, across the divide. We looked at each other and saw people. An adversary, an enemy, but people.
But even then, the conflict was the conflict. It was bitter and bloodied, and wise observers like Yeshayahu Leibowitz already foresaw the big time will triumph, and we will not see people anymore. We must solve the questions of the big time to solve this conflict. The little time is just an important bandaid on the wound. In the last three years I became a lot more confident that I’m not Jewish, sorry about that dad. But I also became a lot more Hebrew.
History didn’t begin on October 7th, damn right it didn’t. But it also didn’t begin in 1948 or the start of the Zionist movement. The questions of the big time, who owns this land, who should be there, are as old as history, thousands of years of strife and bloodshed and expulsion and every crime known to humanity. I’m not saying you must think that, or that this is Standing Together’s opinion. I’m genuinely telling you about my feelings and how they changed in the last three years. You decide about yourself and about your relation – if any – to this far away land.
When I came to London, I wasn’t sure. But now I’m positive this is my only homeland. I don’t associate with any religion, I don’t feel Christian, nor Muslim, and I don’t feel Jewish. But I do know my roots and ethnicity, and I’m Hebrew. I don’t like “culturally Jewish”, I just prefer the word "Hebrew". I’m indigenous to the land between the river and the sea and it's the only plot of land in the world that is mine. I guess my dad would have appreciated that.
I also know it’s not only my homeland. How can a people remembering their ancient homeland forget they always shared it with others? A people rooted in the land would surely teach their children Arabic as their 2nd language, not English. Where is this إسرائيل of ours? بأوروبا، ?Israel of ours
Are we “the Zionist entity”, a foreign body in the region, or are we a people coming back to become an integral part of the region? I now see we must answer that question, or face the consequences of leaving it unanswered for 80 years. And I don’t know what my dad would say about that, and perhaps it doesn’t matter.
My dear fellow Israelis, if we fail to see the limits of power, we will lose it. If Israelis choose to be “the Zionist entity”, if we decide to be an ethno-religious dictatorship, then we will not survive. Only if we understand we have to be an integral part of the region, that our only future is a shared future, maybe we have a chance. Not a big chance. Three years ago I barely ever spoke with a Palestinian or an Arab. Now they’re in my daily life. It’s such a trope in Israeli political discourse, “do you even understand Arabic”. Yes. Yes, I do. I understand our doubt about being accepted. What I don’t understand is how can anyone expect acceptance amidst barbarism and messianism. If we want to stay as neighbours, if we want a claim to any part of this land and live there, we better act like it.
Stop bombing Gaza, and let unlimited food, aid and media into it, today. Stop the Jewish terrorism and ethnic cleansing in the West Bank. Stop the inhumane treatment of legitimate detainees, and release the thousands abducted without cause. Stop the erosion of the rights of Palestinian citizens of Israel, first and foremost the rights to safety, democratic vote, and identity.
These aren’t “peacenik” “tree hugging” opinions. They’re not “the solution”, they’re a first step. If we want a chance to lift the dark clouds from the future, Israelis must do these things immediately for their own benefit. I see that bright as day. If you have any relations with Israelis, if you love any Israelis, help them see that. If Israel can’t do these things from within, I hope we’ll be sanctioned until we are forced to do these things. External force like that is dangerous, it can backfire and it won’t help us integrate into the region. But it might be the only choice. There are other people on the land.
I yearn for a day when the small time triumphs again. But even more, I yearn for a day when the questions of the big time are answered, jointly, by all people who share the land, and we don’t need the small time as much to save us. I don’t want to forget the past, nor erase it; but I want to open the door to forgiveness and restitution. I don’t want to ignore the dead, but I want to save those who are still alive! Two countries, one country, whatever we – both peoples – decide freely. Just live together on our land, in peace and justice.
Was this a political manifesto? Maybe. But I assure all of you, these are also my most personal reflections that I think about daily for three years now. This is what they meant to me. If we figure this out, if we can ever figure this out, it will be a miracle like this land has never seen. If we figure this out, maybe I can even go home some day. I’ll be neighbours with all the amazing people I met in the last three years, some of them endured more in these years than I have endured in my lifetime. Abdelrahman and Jasr and Tareq and Waseem and Lara and Hala and Seba and Abdelrauf and Adham. Rest in peace, dad.