<div>Ahmad... the Son of the Tent and the Ashes"

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<div>In a narrow alley in Beit Hanoun, I am Ahmad Tahseen Shabat, running barefoot, holding a worn-out ball in my hands, and laughing. I was ten years old then, too young to understand what bombing meant, too innocent to know that the sky could get angry and rain fire instead of water.

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<div>Years passed, and I grew up — and so did the tragedies.

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<div>One night, a missile struck my aunt’s house. I wasn’t inside, but in that moment, I lost twenty loved ones, and my mother was critically injured. The smell of death was stronger than anything, and the silence that followed was longer than any prayer.

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<div>Then came the hunger.

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<div>Under siege, there were no bakeries, no flour. My mother would boil water with stones to fool our empty stomachs. I couldn’t find even a stale piece of bread to break in half. I learned to store hunger the same way I stored grief.

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<div>Then came the displacement.

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<div>I left the home my father had built stone by stone, carrying nothing but my ID. I walked with hundreds through rubble and tears, until we reached a tent near a UN school. The tent was not a home — it was as afraid as we were. It shivered in the winter cold and choked in the summer heat.

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<div>And fear became a daily visitor. It doesn’t knock — it enters without permission. At night…

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<div>"I am not just a refugee — I am a witness. I lived through hunger, I heard the bombings, I buried the loved ones, I lived in a tent — and yet… I am still here."

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<div>At twenty-five years old, I have no home, no job, no safety. But I have a story made of fire, a memory that won’t fade, and a dignity that will not bow.

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<div>Please help me get a little food

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