Warning: The text contains graphic descriptions that may be difficult to read.
We requested shrouds, but only charred bones remained. So, the rescue teams wrapped the bones in the shape of a person—much thinner than he was, but how would they know?
We buried bodies whose shrouds were soaked with decay; as we eulogized our dearest, fluids dripped from the corpse, the ground saturated with the bodily fluids of our beloved, fluids of decay, fluids of days spent exposed, stewing in their blood with that odor. It wasn’t just the stench of death—it was the stench of humiliation, a stench no one deserves to be remembered by.
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Victims of the October 7, 2023, music festivals
(Photo: Courtesy of the families, design: VESH Graphics)
We buried our loved ones, then the graves were reopened to add parts; yes, parts; remains of bodies from the loved ones in our lives; and then we buried again and opened again as more parts were found, hoping this time they would rest eternally.
Kids found out on TikTok their parents were murdered
We are children who found out on TikTok that our parents were murdered. We saw the videos showing the corrupted bodies. These are the images that haunt us all day and night, without rest. And now, go ahead and talk to us about our finals.
We saw our sister's body on Telegram, desecrated, left without undergarments, her private parts burned. Thoughts tormented us: What did she endure there? How long did it take? Was she burned before or after being raped? Was she alive or already dead when she was set on fire? No pathology report exists—there was no time, we are at war for the survival of this nation against merciless enemies. Meanwhile, we must maintain sanity, but she was left behind on October 6, 2023.
We turned over one body after another
As we searched the area for our loved ones, risking our lives and the lives of others; hundreds of bodies, some without hands or legs, heads placed on engine covers as if trophies, bodies from which eyes were gouged, bodies indescribably mutilated, repeatedly run over—what choice did people have? To accelerate in their vehicles to try to save their own lives or to avoid doing so and become victims themselves?
We went back to the charred body thrown by the roadside—could it be her? A friend of hers? Are they inside that car nearby still burning?
We smelled, we saw and our eyes could hardly believe what we witnessed, and the stench won’t leave our bodies—it's etched deep within our cells, lingering for over six months. Our eyes wish to go blind because we see over and over what happened there. We try to live in the present, but we see the past.
Our son sent us his location, and we begged for days for someone to go there. We were told that if he indeed was there, the risk was that our own tanks might crush him unnoticed. We tried to mobilize the world to resolve this, believing wholeheartedly that he was buried there. In retrospect, he was no longer there; he lay at Shura Camp, "waiting" to be identified.
But we believed that our child was out there, without battery, food or water, dehydrated, scared, injured and bleeding, with the risk of being crushed by our forces over many days—this feeling that should be eradicated from this world still sits deep within us—Did it happen? How was he murdered? How long did he suffer? Did he suffer long? Could he have been saved?
I saw my child in the field shelter
I saw my child in the field shelter among so many other murdered children, piled up, their body parts reminiscent of images from 1940s Europe. Here in my beloved Israel, they were loaded into a refrigerator truck. They were loading my child!
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Bodies of October 7 victims waiting to be identified at Shura Camp
(Photo: Yair Sagi)
Frantic, I followed them to Shura Camp, pleading to take him away, driven mad by the sight of my beloved child being loaded onto the truck. I was approached by a commander who couldn’t ignore my distress. "I want my child—now!" I demanded. He replied, "800 bodies just came in; do you want to sift through all the bodies? It's impossible. Wait patiently." And I waited and I waited and I waited. It took seven days until my beloved child was brought for burial.
I saw a dashcam video. My child, wounded, soaked in his own blood, begging for help. Abandoned, bleeding on the sidewalk, alone for hours until the life left his body.
On the morning of October 7, we received a brief call as our loved ones bid us farewell, urging us to say goodbye to the world on their behalf. We heard the sounds of war in the background, but what war? Against whom are we fighting? Where is the fighting taking place? A war of darkness against the children of light who came into this world to spread and teach love. Then, our dear ones said, "The trucks are coming," and we screamed from the other end of the line, "What's happening?" We heard screams in Arabic, gunfire and groaning. More gunfire.
We were with our children on the phone during their flight, for hours, hearing them slaughtered, hearing the silence of death.
A small chapter
This is but a small chapter in our tales of heroism, from the families of the slain, heroic families who did everything to save their children and to learn about their fates. Families living in a reality where a cruel fate, in a very cruel, long and unprotected way, has left us all—stunned, wounded, traumatized, with bleeding souls in need of salvation.
On October 7, the lives of this nation were altered drastically. It became a living graveyard, a moving cemetery; at best moving, in other cases still in bed, hospitalized or truly under the ground—a small part of ourselves buried.
Now, Independence Day, a day we have always carried with pride, continues despite the immense hardship. Immense because we are chained down to the ground—to the trauma, to what happened, to yearning and endless shock. Time moves forward, but we remain stuck, unable to understand why or how, reliving every day as if it were October 7, dreaming of a world where October 7 is just another festive day, a sunny Sabbath in mid-autumn.
May the sacrifice of our children of light not be in vain. We pray that this dear nation emerges from the darkness, that we unite, strengthen each other and forever remember all those who formed the frontline of our state's defense, so that we all may continue to live here in the Land of Israel.
Hila LiorIn memory and valor (which may forever remain unknown) of the heroes who saved our lives here in the ongoing existential war of liberation against those who seek our destruction. Am Yisrael Chai.
May the memory of all the heroes of October 7, 2023, be blessed and their rest heavenly. Written based on testimonies provided by the families, in respectful remembrance and honor of the heroic families, by Hila Lior - sister of the late Matan Lior, representative of the families and co-founder of the Association of the Children of Light - families of the victims of the October 7, 2023 massacres.