I opened an old Facebook account of mine a short while ago, one I hadn’t accessed for a long time. It contained my old school friends and childhood friends those we once believed life would bring us together with again at any time. But the moment I opened it, I was shocked. Facebook was no longer the same. Most of the posts were about martyrdom, about friends we used to laugh with who are now gone, about fathers sharing memories of their sons, and mothers writing about children who never came back. The account that once held beautiful photos and memories had turned into an endless book of mourning. I had no idea they had all died like this. I always thought time would reunite us again someday, that it was only a delay, nothing more. But I discovered that many of them had their lives end suddenly, in moments no one expected. Some of them were killed while on their way to bring flour for their families from aid distribution points and they never returned. They left in search of a loaf of bread, and came back only in the news, or not at all. I sat in front of the screen in long silence… childhood friends who were once part of my life had become names on obituary posts, memories suspended in a silent space that does not respond. It wasn’t just the loss of people… it was the loss of a whole part of life itself, of memory, of the path we once thought we would continue together.