A mother in Gaza begs for help to feed her children

My name is Hanan Al-Madhoun. I am a mother of three, a wife, and a survivor of endless horror. I am writing this not with hope, but with desperation. Our lives have become a daily battle between hunger and fear, between wounds and silence.

‏When the war began in northern Gaza, our home was bombed within days. I lost my right eye.

My daughter Afaf, only a child, was torn by shrapnel—over 40 stitches across her tiny body. My son Yahya was also injured. I was pregnant at the time, carrying my youngest, Zeina, in my womb, unsure if either of us would make it out alive.

‏But the worst was yet to come. My husband—once the pillar of our family—suffered injuries that left him broken. His skull was fractured. His intestines torn. His nose and teeth shattered. He can no longer walk. He lives in pain, dizzy and unbalanced, as our children watch the man they love slowly disappear.

‏We begged for medical evacuation. We cried out for help.