We are not numbers, we are human beings like you, and we deserve to survive.

My name is Farah. I am a 21-year-old artist and designer from Gaza, Palestine.

For the past three years, life has no longer felt like life. Three years of war, destruction, hunger, fear, and displacement. Three years of enduring the same suffering, shedding the same tears, and waking up every day to a reality we never chose but were forced to endure.

We have been displaced more than 20 times. More than 20 times, we have been forced to leave the places where we lived and flee in search of safety, never knowing where we would go or what the next day would bring. We have lost our stability and the feeling that there is somewhere we can rest peacefully and close our eyes without fear. We have lived in torn tents, facing the freezing cold of winter and the scorching heat of summer, trying to protect whatever little remains while the world around us continues to crumble.

We have experienced famine and all the pain that this word carries. Bread has become a wish, clean water a blessing we cannot take for granted, and finding a meal to satisfy our hunger a daily struggle. Things that were once ordinary and simple have become distant dreams. How can a human being become accustomed to hunger? How can anyone grow used to fear, or sleep peacefully without knowing what they will eat tomorrow or where they will spend the coming night?

Three years of endless suffering and losses we barely have time to process. We hardly catch our breath from one pain before finding ourselves facing another. We cry, we grieve, we grow exhausted, and then we try to rise again, because life does not give us the luxury of surrender, even when we feel we have no strength left to continue.

My father is sick. He has lost one of his eyes and suffers from a heart condition. It hurts to watch him suffer and to live with constant worry about his health amid these harsh circumstances. Some kinds of pain cannot be described in words. There is a particular kind of fear that settles in your heart when someone you love is ill, while the circumstances around you leave you wondering how you will get through it all.

As for me, I was once a girl who dreamed of a different future. I worked hard in school and graduated from high school with a 96,7% average. I dreamed of going to university, becoming a graphic designer, developing my talents, and creating something beautiful in this world. I had a future I could imagine and dreams I was waiting to live.

But the war took me far away from all of that. Instead of spending my youth learning, creating, and building my future, I found myself trying to survive one day at a time. Sometimes I wonder how just three years can change a person so profoundly, making even the simplest details of life feel unbearably heavy.

I reached a point where I wrote a phrase on a piece of nylon, something to hold on to whenever despair surrounded me. It was not merely a sentence. It was my attempt to give myself strength and remind my heart that, despite everything happening around me, I do not want to lose hope.

I wrote:

“And if the winds of despair shake our boat, then trusting in Allah will save us.”

I wrote these words because I needed something to remind me to hold on to my faith when life became overwhelming, and to trust in Allah’s mercy when I could no longer see a clear path ahead. Sometimes, I need a few simple words to give me the strength to face another day, endure a reality I never chose, and keep all this pain from extinguishing the little hope I still carry inside me.

I am sharing these words not simply to tell a story of suffering, but because I want our voices to reach the world. I want people to understand that Gaza is not just a collection of numbers mentioned in the news. Behind every number is a human being with a name, a face, memories, dreams, loved ones they worry about, and a heart that feels pain, grows weary, and weeps.

We are not numbers. We are human beings who have endured hunger, displacement, fear, and unimaginable loss. We are people who have spent countless nights in pain and anxiety, trying to hold on to life under circumstances no human being should ever have to experience. And still, after three years of suffering, we continue searching for even the smallest space for hope in our hearts.

I do not want the world to witness our numbers alone. I want it to hear our voices, see our humanity, and understand what life looks like when suffering continues year after year, while we struggle with every bit of strength we have left just to keep going.

Three years have passed, and we are still trying. We are still crying, dreaming, holding on to our faith, and waiting for days that are a little less cruel. We may not have answers to everything happening to us, but we still believe that hope is worth holding on to, even when all we have left are words written on a piece of nylon and hearts quietly whispering:

“O Allah, do not let despair conquer our hearts. Grant us enough of Your mercy to help us continue this journey.”

Do not let Gaza suffer in silence. Remember us, and keep us in your memories. Do not let the world forget our pain or allow our stories to become nothing more than passing numbers. Remember that we are human beings. Behind every tear is a story, behind every face is a dream, and behind every weary heart is a soul that is still holding on to hope.