I’m not writing this as an activist or a journalist. I’m writing this as a broken human being—a father, a brother, a son—simply trying to survive in the ruins of Gaza.

For endless months, we have lived without bread, without clean water, without medicine, without safety. Gaza is no longer a city—it’s a graveyard for dreams and the living. Everything is destroyed: homes, streets, schools, hospitals, and even hope itself.

We try to flee, to escape, to scream—but there’s nowhere to go. The borders are sealed, the bombings relentless, and the siege suffocating. Every few weeks, I lose someone I love—a friend, a cousin, a neighbor. I’ve run out of tears to cry. All that’s left is a heavy heart and a sense of abandonment.

What hurts even more than hunger or fear is the silence. The silence of the world. Official institutions claim they are helping, but we see nothing. No food reaches us. No clean water. Not even stale bread. We are left to starve slowly while cameras turn away and consciences fall asleep.

And for those who demand “proof,” here it is:

A joint UNICEF and World Food Programme report (May 2025) warned that over **470