Help us meet our daily needs

The Sufferings of a Child in Wartime**

My name is Baraa Abdel Hamid, I am 16 years old, and I am writing to you today from a small tent in the southern Gaza Strip, where "displaced" has become my new nickname after being an ordinary child dreaming of a promising future. Months ago, I lived in a warm home with my family in the northern Gaza Strip, but the war destroyed everything. All I have left are memories of a house that collapsed on top of my dreams, and the last school photo I took before my school was reduced to rubble.

---

**Fleeing Death... Towards Another Death:**

I will never forget that dark day when a shell exploded near our house. My mother shouted, "Run into the street!" So we ran out like blind men, dragging our feet through the smoke and bullets. I carried my younger siblings and followed the fleeing crowds south. We walked for hours under a sky that did not recognize humanity, stepping on the remains of homes and dreams of neighbors who were no longer among us. On the way, I saw a child crying next to his mother's body, and an old man carrying his old documents as if they were his only treasure. We reached the south, but all we found was barren land and tattered tents awaiting us.

---

**Living in a Tent: An Endless Hell:**

The tent we're living in now doesn't protect us from the cold of the night or the blazing heat of the day. I roll over on the sandy ground, my back aching, and I hear my baby sister crying, unable to get enough milk. We are five people, sharing a single blanket, and on rainy days, the tent turns into a swamp. The hardest part of all is the loss of dignity: hours of queuing for a loaf of dry bread, and battles over a can of clean water. Sometimes, we go to bed hungry because aid hasn't arrived, or because it isn't enough for everyone. Even wild mint has become our daily food some days!

---

**Hunger: An Unbearable Shame:**

I remember one night, my father was forced to sell his only watch (the last thing left of our home) for a bag of flour. But even the flour wasn't enough, and our bread was like small stones. My mother would hide her snacks for us, claiming she was full, but at night I could hear her stomach growling with hunger. My little brother, Mohammed, no longer plays like he used to. His eyes are sunken, and he constantly complains of stomach pains. Lack of food isn't just hunger; it's a disease that ravages bodies and souls.

---

**I dream of going back to school:**

In the past, I used to complain about my homework, but today I miss the noise of the classroom and the screams of my teachers. My textbooks are buried under the rubble, and my backpack has become a bread bag. Sometimes, I close my eyes and imagine myself excitedly running to a math exam or playing football with my friends. But the reality is that here, in this tent, I am writing my story with one hope: that the world will hear our voice.

---

**My message to the world:**

We don't want pity or political speeches. We want to live in peace. We want clean water, medicine for a sick child, and a tent to protect us from the rain. Don't let the children of Gaza face death twic