600 days isn’t just a number. It’s life. It’s death. It’s an endless wait with no answers. 600 days they’ve been there. I know what that means.
I was in captivity for 471 days. 450 days underground. No light. No sky. No knowing if I’d ever see my parents, my family, my friends again. And every passing day feels like an eternity.
There are moments etched in my memory. The explosions above, the pit in your stomach when you don’t know if it’s the end. The desperate hope that someone will fight for you, that they’ll remember you exist.
I remember the sleepless nights, the deafening silence, the sound of your heart pounding too loudly in the void. I remember my body shrinking, my soul unsure if it was still allowed to feel. I remember how every single day felt like a year.
And then there are the round numbers—100, 200, 300... and your stomach churns. It’s as if someone is reminding you: time is passing, and you’re still there. And today, I’m here.
But there are still 58 who remain there. And their time is running out—their lives and their spirits. A week ago, I returned from a delegation to the United States. I met many people, shared my story - shared our story - with anyone who wanted to listen. And they asked, they cared, they hugged, and they truly listened.
One question came up in every meeting: “How are you? Are you okay? Are you doing things for yourself?” And my response was always the same—a shrug and a sigh of despair. Because how can you really answer such a question?
Nothing is okay
For me, time froze on October 7, and it won’t thaw until everyone comes home—all 58 of our brothers and sisters. There can be no healing, no recovery, no future. Because nothing truly begins to heal. Not when I know there are still people underground. Not when I know Gali and Zivi, my neighbors, are still there.
I’m moving into a temporary home now. And every time I look at the door across from mine, I think of them. They were kidnapped just meters away from me. From the same kibbutz. From the same neighborhood. Twins. Two brothers who always came together.
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With open hearts, with a presence that filled every room, with kindness that was just always here. And now—they’re there. And no one knows when they’ll come back. I worry about them so much. I worry about everyone—for those who are there and for those who are here, waiting for them.
Doron's message for the UN Security Council
(Video: Hostage families HQ)
And I’m addressing you, the public—not as someone who survived captivity, but as someone who is now fighting—not to forget. We must not let routine silence the voices calling from the darkness. Don’t stop talking about them. Don’t stop demanding their release. This isn’t politics. This is about humanity. This is our duty.
And yes, when I say “the public,” I mean decision-makers too. You are human beings, just like us. Let’s just bring them back. I know what they are going through. I know how important it is to know that someone is still fighting for you. I know how important it is to bring them back. I know they need to be here.
We won’t have any kind of recovery until they’re here. We won’t move on from this. I won’t move on from this. Society won’t move on from this.