Reflections on Love and Survival Amidst Terror

My name is Alber Yehud, 30 years old, and I grew up on Kibbutz Nir Oz. I share this place with Ariel Kunio, who is 28. We’ve always known each other, sharing the same small community in southern Israel. Little did we know, our simple lives would lead us into a fight for survival.

On October 7, 2023, everything changed. We were kidnapped by Hamas terrorists. Alber endured 482 days in captivity, while Ariel was held for 738 days. Although we were taken together, we were separated soon after.

What helped us through this nightmare was not just hope or strength, but love. It’s a bit of an unexpected lifeboat in such dark waters.

We’d known each other for years, from childhood, walking the same paths, our families close. Romantic love didn’t appear in our lives according to any script—rather, it bloomed unexpectedly. Initially, we kept our feelings hidden since Ariel was soon to travel abroad, and, well, long-distance seemed daunting. But as distance opened up between us, our bond deepened. Upon reuniting, it was clear—we wanted a future together.

We settled into a cozy little home on the kibbutz. Our life settled into a routine of cooking, dancing in the living room, wandering through fields, and chatting about our dreams. We envisioned children, family gatherings, growing old in familiar spaces from our youth.

Just before everything fell apart, we welcomed a puppy named Murph into our lives. At that moment, I felt a sense of fulfillment.

Then came October 7th.

The morning began with sirens. Gunshots followed, and we clung to the hope that they were military exchanges. Locked inside, we were paralyzed as Arabic voices drew near, our understanding fading. Then the door broke open. We hid, but they found us swiftly. My dog was shot right before my eyes. We were beaten, dragged outside, stripped of our safety and dignity. Our home had turned into a scene of utter chaos.

As we were taken away, we saw a burning house belonging to Ariel’s brother—no way to know if he was safe. They transported us on motorbikes, we were interrogated, and within just hours of our abduction, we were torn apart.

No goodbyes, no last words. We had no idea when or if we’d see each other again. Then began a period of isolation.

Each of us was held in horrifying conditions filled with fear and humiliation. Days blurred together without light or time, leaving us uncertain of each other’s fate—or our families. The loneliness was unbearable. There were moments when survival seemed impossible.

In that abyss, memories became our lifeline. I clung to thoughts of our shared future, scribbling dreams and drawings of our lives together. When those notes finally reached Ariel, it offered a glimmer of hope.

We both reached our limits during our time in captivity. There were moments we contemplated ending our own lives. Yet we held on—thinking of each other made it unthinkable to give up. The thought of one of us vanishing felt unbearable.

When I was released after 482 days, freedom felt strange. Ariel was still captive. The guilt of being free while she suffered was overwhelming. Rather than healing, I found myself in a different kind of struggle, speaking out and sharing our story, trying to convey the heavy burden of loneliness.

A few months later, against all odds, Ariel was released after 738 days.

Now, we find ourselves without a home to go back to. The place where we made our life together is in ruins. That fateful Saturday took a significant toll—about a quarter of our community was either killed or taken away. The life we once envisioned has vanished.

But here we are, together. And perhaps that is a beginning, even amidst the ash of what used to be.