Hello, I’m Jimmy, from the city of _Gaza_.

I’m 14 years old—but if you looked at my face,

you might think I’m an exhausted man, worn down by a life I was never meant to carry.

I no longer play with Samar or Sama or Qamar like I used to.

The occupation bombed our home—our memories turned to ashes. They destroyed my father’s car too.

My small hands, once holding a pencil, now carry a _bucket_… often empty.

Every morning, I wake early to fetch water from a distant point:

First for washing, then drinking… then I join my mother to collect firewood.

We light the fire—not for warmth, but to cook what little we have... if anything.

Then I head to the market in my father’s place.

He raised me with dignity, but his knees failed him after one surgery after another.

And I never failed him…

I became his knees, his cane, and his shadow.

I now have a _small street stall_ in the corner of our neighborhood—no sign, but everyone knows it’s mine.

Each day, I sell whatever I can:

_cleaning supplies, sandwiches made by my mom, and simple bracelets._

I don’t cheat. I don’t bargain my honesty.

My prices are clear, and my smile vouches for me.

Even those who don’t buy stop by just to say: “Bless you, Jimmy.”

That alone… is a kind of wealth no money can buy.

Even my body didn’t escape the war.

Over the past few months, I’ve lost _ten kilograms_ in weight.

I thought weight loss was something people chose at the gym—

but I lost mine chasing a _loaf of bread_, not fitness.

Every time I look in the mirror, I see a smaller shoulder… and a heavier heart.

My baby sister cries often.

I carry her when she cries and try to distract her—

hoping she forgets that _milk isn’t available today, again_.

Another sister asks me: “Will the war take everything?”

I have no answer…

Only a hug, the kind we all take shelter in together.

I’m Jimmy.

I no longer remember the taste of childhood,

but I’ve learned the flavor of responsibility far too soon.

I’ve tasted hunger, smelled fire,

and feared for my mom when she gets sick, for my dad when his strength fades,

and for my sisters when the sky rains _bombs instead of water_.

But I didn’t give up.

Today, I am: _the brother, the son, the small merchant, and the boy who won’t break._

I’ll keep carrying this home on my shoulder

until the siege ends, or relief comes,

or I grow strong enough to give _Gaza_ back a piece of the life that was stolen from it.

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*❤️ How You Can Help*

Every contribution—no matter how small—helps us:

- Provide food and medicine for my father and sisters

- Buy milk for our little one

- Keep our small stall running to support our household

- Give "Jimmy" a chance to be a child… even just a little

- Help my father pay rent, now that our home was bombed and flattened

Your kindness is the hope we hold onto

_Jimmy_