'Three years without my Asaf': Mother of soldier killed on Oct. 7 pleads for truth - opinion

Three years, my Asaf.

My beloved son.

Three years have passed – yet I wake up this morning as if time had stood still.

I return to that terrible morning, minute by minute.

To the rockets piercing the sky, to the sirens shattering the silence, and to your calming voice – a voice that was also that of a leader, a steady, clear commander’s voice – leading even in moments of truth and in the direst times, taking responsibility, and showing the way.

I hear you again over the radio: “Scramble the emergency standby squads, tanks, and vehicles. Shift to full combat footing. We are at war.” That was the moment you realized the country was at war. And I am going through it all with you, with Tomer and Kiril, your command team, minute by minute. Hearing your orders.

The attempt to mobilize forces, the speed with which you grasped that this event was far greater than anything we had ever known.

You leave the base with your team, heading into battle. A few against many. A commander and heroic fighters facing down dozens of terrorists.

You “returned” home wrapped in the Israeli flag, after 758 days, back to the homeland you loved so dearly.

My beloved, beautiful son, Assaf. In your final moments... I was not there.

I was not by your side like a mother lioness.

I could not cradle you in my arms, hold you tight, rest your head against my heart, and whisper with a mother’s warmth: “Mommy is here, my Asaf. Everything is fine; I’m with you.”

And I cannot stop asking myself: What did you feel in those moments? What were you thinking about?

Who were you thinking of?

Did you see me and Dad? Did you see your younger brother, Eitan, whom you loved so dearly and always worried about?

Did you think of the warm home you built, the woman you loved, and your children, beloved Ella, Alon, and Arbel, of whom you spoke with a face lit up by a wide, happy smile? Alon – who was with you just hours earlier on the holiday eve, and who stayed behind in the room at the base when you went off to fight – did you think of him in those moments?

What images flashed through your mind in those final moments?

And what passed through your heart the moment your beautiful eyes closed forever?

No one can give me the answers to these questions anymore.

But one thing I know: Your smile didn’t stop at that moment. The smile that always lit up your beautiful face lives on within us.

It continues to be with me, with Dad, with your children, with the family, with your friends, and with everyone who had the privilege of knowing you.

I can no longer meet your beautiful, radiant eyes, but the light within them can never be extinguished.

SINCE LAST week, I have been wandering aimlessly.

My stomach churns. My heart knows this day is coming.

Dad and I needed to be close to you. We drove to visit you at your new home, your permanent home at Kiryat Shaul. We bought flowers, washed and cleaned the site, and lit a candle.

A new home, one I never imagined would be the place where we’d be with you. The longing tears at my heart all over again.

I open your WhatsApp messages and read them once more:

“Come visit us at home.”

“Come over for dinner.”

“Love you.”

My heart and mind still refuse to accept this new reality.

How is it possible that your last messages spoke of home, of a visit, of dinner, yet the only visits left for us with you are at Kiryat Shaul?

I stand before you, cradling your beautiful head against the headstone, imagining the tight hugs I used to shower you with whenever we met. For a mother keeps hugging her son even when her hands can no longer touch him.

On October 6, 2023, the eve of Simchat Torah, Alon was with you at the base.

I can picture it in my mind.

You, a father overjoyed, and Alon, your son, who so wanted to spend time with you at the base, playing soccer.

Alon is wearing you out, and you are absolutely delighted. Smiling. Beaming with happiness.

The simple happiness of father and son, just the two of you, moments you shared before the rest of the family was set to join you the next day.

And today, I look at your three children and think of how proud you would have been of them.

How much more you would have wanted to see. How many more moments you were meant to share. How much life still lay ahead of you.

There is something unfathomable about this intersection of holidays and joy with pain and bereavement.

How does Simchat Torah, a festival of joy, of Torah, of home, of family, become mingled with the memory of the day that terrible disaster befell us?

How can one process the magnitude of this tragedy, day after day, year after year, without pausing for a moment to ask: What happened to us?

And not just: What happened at the border fence?

Not just: What happened that morning?

What happened to us as a society? What happened to us as a people?

How did we reach a point where the hatred among us became so deep? In the months leading up to October 7, we witnessed a fractured society – arguments turning into battles, words into vitriol, and disagreements into hatred.

And then came that morning.

In an instant, our disputes paled in comparison to an enemy intent on killing, abducting, and destroying.

Thousands of bloodthirsty terrorists breached the border.

Communities were attacked. Civilians were massacred. Soldiers fell.

And you, my Asaf, went out to defend.

Three years later, I believe we owe ourselves one thing above all else: The truth.

Not the truth of the coalition.

Not the truth of the opposition.

The truth of a people.

I hear the debate over which committee will conduct the inquiry, who will appoint it, who will head it, and who its members will be.

AND I SAY: Enough arguing. Just start the investigation.

A state commission of inquiry, a national commission, or any other mechanism – the main thing is that it be established and be independent, professional, and, above all, accepted by everyone – or at least by the broadest possible segments of the public.

It is important to me that there be a commission in which this wounded nation can place its trust. One that bereaved families can trust, knowing it was not set up to shield any particular side. One that investigates everyone; that asks all the questions; that reaches every corner, even those places no one wants to go.

Who knew? Who didn’t know? Who raised the alarm? Who didn’t listen? What failed? Who bore the responsibility?

And above all, what must we, as a society, change so that such a disaster can never happen again?

We do not seek revenge. We seek the truth.

We do not ask for a committee that serves a faction. We ask for one that serves the state.

Because we deserve answers; not for the sake of revenge; not to single out culprits in advance, simply to understand.

And when someone is found responsible, let that responsibility be examined through the proper mechanisms of a well-functioning state, in accordance with the law.

Because without truth, there is no healing.

And without healing, the wound remains open.

I do not want us to remain a country where every disaster immediately turns into yet another war among ourselves.

I want us to finally learn to listen to one another. To argue without hating. To criticize without humiliating. To disagree without tearing each other apart.

To be strong without losing our humanity.

Perhaps this is one of the things you, my Asaf, would have asked of us.

Because you believed in people.

You saw what others did not see.

You listened.

You gave.

You took action.

Throughout your life, you taught – even without grand speeches – that one can be a great person without needing to be greater than others. And today, three years later, perhaps this is our greatest test:

Not only to defeat the enemy from without but to succeed in remaining one people from within.

For in the end – after all the arguments, all the factions, and all the headlines – we are left with one another. And if, after the heavy and terrible price we have paid, we do not understand this: When will we?

MY DEAR Asaf,

Three years.

Three years that you have been so deeply missed, yet so present in our lives.

Today, I no longer ask how one goes on living without you. I know.

We go on with you.

In every child who knows your story. In every value we pass on. In every person we truly see. In every act of giving.

Every time we choose unity over hatred. Every time we take action instead of just talking.

Your path was cut short in battle on that cursed day, but your path did not end.

We will carry it forward.

And I promise you, my beloved son: We will do everything to ensure that life in this country is worthy of the price you – and so many of our sons and daughters – paid for it.

You are a person. You are a son. You are a father. You are a commander. You are a brother. You are a friend. You are loved.

And above all, you are my Asaf.

Three years. I miss you with every breath. And yet, amid all the pain, I see your smile. That same beautiful, warm, mischievous, radiant smile.

And today, your handsome face and the name Asaf Hamami are with us all across the country – on stickers, flags, walls, signs, classrooms, and in so many places where people have chosen to keep your presence and your path alive.

Your smile continues to be with me, and it is no longer just mine.

It is everywhere in the country.

It accompanies people who never had the chance to know you.

There is something captivating about it, just like your quiet leadership:

Less talking, more action. At eye level.

With a hug full of meaning, and with a goodness that was always directed toward others.

So simple. So genuine. So you.

But home is where we still meet. Your photo is on the fridge; you are waiting for me every morning. We “meet” in the kitchen over the morning coffee you loved so much.

And at the front door, as we leave, we are met by your smiling face and your blessing for the journey ahead.

And when we return, I say – as if you were here: “Asaf, we’re home.”

For even within our home, you are still a part of our lives.

Your eyes have closed forever, but your smile stays with us, and your presence walks beside us.

And I promise you, my beautiful, beloved boy, Mom is here. Just as I always was. And you will always be here with us because there is no love in the world like a mother’s love.