My name is Arafat Alaa Abu Kuwaik. I am 18 years old.
II come from a big family — there are 14 of us. We were once a family like any other, with routines, memories, laughter, and shared meals around a table. Today, all of that is gone. We live in a tent made of scraps of fabric and hope. It protects us neither from the cold nor the heat, nor the wind. But it’s all we have left.
Our daily life has become a struggle. Each day begins with one question: will we eat today? The markets are empty, and when something is left, it’s unaffordable. We no longer have access to the simplest foods — bread, rice, fresh vegetables… They’ve become memories. We survive on canned goods when we can find them, sometimes shared among the fourteen of us, in silence, eyes downcast so no one sees the hunger.
But more than hunger, there is fear. A constant, silent fear that tightens the chest, keeps us from sleeping, and makes us jump at the slightest noise. The fear of losing everything again. The fear of not waking up. The fear of watching our parents break down. The fear that tomorrow will be worse than today.
Despite everything, we try to remain human. To stay standing. We hold on to each other. We share what little we have, we speak softly, we cling to childhood memories, to plans we once made, to dreams that now seem so far away. I am 18 years old. At this age, one should be thinking about the future, going to school, falling in love, learning to drive, learning to live. I’ve learned to survive. I’ve learned how to stretch a meal for fourteen. To comfort my siblings when they’re hungry or cry for no reason. I’ve learned to stay strong even when I feel like falling apart. I don’t say all this to complain. I just want the world to know. Behind every forgotten face, every tent, every silence, there is a life. There is a young man who still dreams of better days, even when everything seems lost.
My name is Arafat. I am 18 years old. And I just want to live.
II come from a big family — there are 14 of us. We were once a family like any other, with routines, memories, laughter, and shared meals around a table. Today, all of that is gone. We live in a tent made of scraps of fabric and hope. It protects us neither from the cold nor the heat, nor the wind. But it’s all we have left.
Our daily life has become a struggle. Each day begins with one question: will we eat today? The markets are empty, and when something is left, it’s unaffordable. We no longer have access to the simplest foods — bread, rice, fresh vegetables… They’ve become memories. We survive on canned goods when we can find them, sometimes shared among the fourteen of us, in silence, eyes downcast so no one sees the hunger.
But more than hunger, there is fear. A constant, silent fear that tightens the chest, keeps us from sleeping, and makes us jump at the slightest noise. The fear of losing everything again. The fear of not waking up. The fear of watching our parents break down. The fear that tomorrow will be worse than today.
Despite everything, we try to remain human. To stay standing. We hold on to each other. We share what little we have, we speak softly, we cling to childhood memories, to plans we once made, to dreams that now seem so far away. I am 18 years old. At this age, one should be thinking about the future, going to school, falling in love, learning to drive, learning to live. I’ve learned to survive. I’ve learned how to stretch a meal for fourteen. To comfort my siblings when they’re hungry or cry for no reason. I’ve learned to stay strong even when I feel like falling apart. I don’t say all this to complain. I just want the world to know. Behind every forgotten face, every tent, every silence, there is a life. There is a young man who still dreams of better days, even when everything seems lost.
My name is Arafat. I am 18 years old. And I just want to live.
Organizer
