I am collecting donations because our house is destroyed

My name is Zain Abed. My age isn't what the numbers say, but what the scars in my heart tell, and what the days I lived under the gray skies of my city, Gaza, recount.

We had a home. Yes, it was. A small home, but it held enough warmth to defeat the coldest winter nights. Its walls held our pictures, our laughter, the smell of my mother's baking, and the sounds of my father's endless conversations. In its corners, I played, dreamed, cried, and woke up.

But one dawn, the sky was stolen from us. Everything fell: the home, the memories, and the peace. The dust remained, and so did I.

I walked over the rubble of our home as if searching for myself among the stones. I found my burned notebook, my brother's broken toy, and the remains of a door my father had repaired days earlier. I didn't find everything, but I found enough to write this story.

I am Zain, from Gaza. I live without a home, but I am not without a homeland. We may have lost our walls, but we haven't lost our hearts.

The house is in ruins, yes. But my name is still written on its door, even if it is now reduced to ashes.