Try to imagine this. Truly imagine it. You are in your home with your children, the one place that should be a sanctuary. You see it outside: a heavy, menacing vehicle. It rolls to a stop, right at your doorstep. A moment of terrifying silence hangs in the air. Then, a hellish explosion tears through everything. In an instant, your entire world—your street, your neighborhood, the homes of your friends and family—is obliterated into dust and rubble. The media uses sterile, technical terms like "explosive robot." But do not be fooled. This is a monstrous weapon: an old armored vehicle packed with 7 tons of explosives, driven remotely to its target and detonated. Its purpose is erasure. It doesn't just kill; it vaporizes. It leaves nothing behind. No bodies to count, no remains to bury, just an aching, unbearable absence. Because there are no bodies to count, the official death toll remains frozen. It tells a lie of silence. But we know the truth. Thousands of souls, human beings with names and stories, have been simply erased, their deaths hidden from the world's cameras by this new kind of monstrosity. Why? Because these people, our people, had the courage to stay in their homes. And for that act of resilience, the decision was made that they would be annihilated. Their perseverance was met with a policy of vaporization, treated as a casual, everyday event. Their voices were silenced in the most final way. Will they only be numbers added months from now, when the world has moved on? Will we suddenly learn that the true toll was not thousands, but hundreds of thousands? We are living through an unspeakable horror that words cannot fully capture. And the most painful part is the feeling that the world cannot, or will not, understand what is being done to us. Please, see our pain. Stand with us. Do not let our story be erased.