For a long time, I thought the worst thing was fear.
Fear of missiles.
Fear of never waking up.
Fear of dying alone under rubble.
But I was wrong.
The worst thing was hope.
The hope that they wouldn’t dare.
That someone would stop them.
That the world would never allow this madness.
I clung to it like a lifeline.
In the first months of war, I kept repeating to myself:
“This can’t last long. They’ll see. They’ll understand. They’ll stop.”
I believed in logic.
In humanity.
In justice.
I believed that truth would be enough.
That showing them our pain would make them care.
That the world, once awakened, would never look away again.
And for that belief, I almost lost myself.
Because every time a hospital was bombed, every time a child’s body was pulled from debris, every time I heard a neighbor scream from grief - I kept asking:
Why is this still happening?
And no one had an answer.
The lie I believed almost killed me from the inside.
Because it made me wait.
Wait for justice.
Wait for help.
Wait for peace.
It took time to understand: peace isn’t something handed to you.
It’s something we fight for every day: with blood, strength, and terrifying resilience.
It’s not fair.
It’s not just.
It’s war.
And in war, hope can become a poison - if it blinds you.
So I let go of the lies.
And I held on to something else:
Truth. Grit. Action. The people standing beside me.
I don’t believe in fairy tale endings anymore.
But I believe in us.
In those who speak.
In those who still risk their lives to defend every inch of our land.
In those who keep living, even when the sky is falling.
Maybe one day peace will come.
Not because we waited for it - but because we earned it.