I remember many details about my life: what I did, with whom, and when - but only vaguely, like everyone else. I couldn't tell you how many days passed since I enlisted, finished high school exams, or celebrated a birthday. But everything related to October 7 and my kidnapping, I know exactly. I feel it inside me. It's my internal clock. And if I forget for even a moment, the number is right there - displayed on the clock in the square, written in black marker on the sticker on so many chests, and repeated again and again by friends and families of those still held captive.
600 have passed since I was kidnapped. Of those, I spent 505 days in captivity. I've been free for the past 95 days - but a part of me is still there.
Time is a luxury
The world has opened up again. Every place is accessible. I wake up when I want to, eat when and what my body asks for, drink cold water, and most of all, I hug. I hug whoever I want. I thank people. I thank the world around me and absorb the warmth and love that have come my way. But I know who I want to hug and still can't. Their loved ones want to hold them tight too, and never let go.
They are still there, still trapped in the nightmare. I count the days for them, too, because each day is like a lifetime. Each day is a matter of life or death. So I hug their posters because I can't find peace. At one event, I hold up a photo of Alon Ehel. At another, I cradle the images of my good friends Guy and Eviatar. From another stage, I raise pictures of Yonatan Samrano, or of Gali and Ziv.
Their photos, with the demand to bring them home, surround me and constantly remind me that I am not truly free. My commitment to them, to their families, slows time and keeps me with them in Gaza.
Yes, I'm here. But there are moments when I still feel like I'm there. Every plane overhead, every passing motorcycle makes me fall silent. My heart pounds, and I have to remind myself that I'm here, in a safe place. There are moments when I wake up in the middle of the night just to check that I'm in my own room, and breathe a sigh of relief.
Every moment of my day, I think about them. When I wake and see the light of day, I remember the darkness. When I drink water, I remember the thirst. When I eat, I remember the hunger. Every act that symbolizes my freedom - stays with me. I'm emotionally overwhelmed. I feel guilt, even though I know it's not my fault. Not my fault that I was kidnapped, not my fault that I survived, not my fault that I was released. But if I don't act, don't speak, don't do something, then yes - that will be my fault. So I speak. I tell my story. I hug. To show, to prove, to explain that they must be brought back - now.
I honestly don't understand how it's not clear to everyone that time is a luxury. It's running out, it's already gone. And still, somehow, the days in the free world keep ticking on. There, time stands still, in the dark, the humidity, the fear. There, their hope is fading. The trust and belief that we will bring them home is wearing thin, and that must not happen. For their sake, for their families, and for all of us, they must come home. Only then can we stop the clock. Only then can we enjoy the small moments without thinking, without counting. Simply live.
