Hamas kidnapped us together, held us apart for over a year — and now we’re starting over

My name is Arbel Yehoud. I am 30, and I was born and raised in Kibbutz Nir Oz. 

My name is Ariel Cunio. I am 28, and I was also born and raised in Kibbutz Nir Oz. 

We grew up just a few steps apart, in the same small community in southern Israel, long before we ever imagined our lives would be defined by survival.

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On Oct. 7, 2023, we were kidnapped from our home by Hamas terrorists. Arbel was held in captivity for 482 days. Ariel was held for 738 days. We were taken together and separated within hours. 

What carried us through those days in hell was not certainty, or strength, or hope in the abstract. It was love. 

We grew up together, walking the same paths, surrounded by the same quiet routines. Our parents were neighbors and close friends. We didn't plan to fall in love. When it found us, it arrived quietly and unexpectedly. 

At first, we kept it to ourselves. Ariel was about to leave on a long trip abroad, and distance felt like an inevitable ending. But the farther apart we were, the deeper our love grew. When we reunited, we knew we wanted to build a life together. 

We moved into a small modest home on the kibbutz. We built a simple, happy routine: cooking together, dancing in the living room, walking through open fields, talking about the future. We dreamed of children, of family and of growing old in the same place where we once played as kids. 

In early Oct. 2023, we adopted our puppy, Murph. Life felt full. Peaceful. 

And then, on Oct. 7, everything ended.

We woke to sirens. When we heard gunfire, we hoped it was the army. We locked ourselves inside. When voices in Arabic drew closer, we still didn't understand. Then our door was forced open. We hid under the bed and tried to stay silent. They found us. Our dog was shot and killed in front of us. We were beaten, our ribs broken, dragged outside, stripped of our safety and dignity. Our home became the scene of our world ending.

We drove past a burning home belonging to Ariel's brother and his family, not knowing if they were alive. We were driven on a motorcycle, assaulted, transferred into Gaza, interrogated. Then, only three hours after being kidnapped, we were torn apart, screaming.

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No goodbye. No last words. No way of knowing if we would ever see each other again. From that moment on, we were completely alone.

Each of us was held separately in inhumane conditions: hunger, fear, humiliation, constant threat. Days without light, without time, without knowing what had happened to our families or to each other. The loneliness was the hardest part: being alone with despair, with terror, with the thought that survival might be too much to bear. 

In the darkness, we had nothing left but memory. So we held on to each other in our minds. Arbel wrote pages filled with dreams of a shared future, drawings of a wedding, of children, of ordinary life. That notebook eventually reached Ariel. It became a lifeline. Proof that someone was waiting. 

Both of us reached breaking points during captivity. Both of us thought about taking our own lives. And both of us stopped for the same reason: the thought of the other. The understanding that if one of us disappeared, the other would not survive either. 

When Arbel was released after 482 days, freedom didn't feel like freedom. Ariel was left behind. The guilt was unbearable — guilt for breathing fresh air, for seeing daylight, for being safe while the other remained captive. Instead of healing, the fight began. Arbel traveled the world, speaking out, meeting leaders, trying to explain what it means to be held alone in captivity, to lose hope, to have your soulmate left behind with time running out. 

Months later, against all odds, we were reunited. Ariel was released after 738 days. 

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Now we have no home to return to. The house we built our life in is gone. Roughly a quarter of our kibbutz were murdered or kidnapped that horrific Saturday. The community we knew has been destroyed. The life we once imagined no longer exists.

But we are here. Together.