My name is Naim, and I’m a member of a simple family of eight: my mother, my father, four brothers, and two sisters. We lived in a modest two-story home in northern Gaza, building our dreams with dignity and hard work. My father worked as a photographer, and my older brother and I helped him capture people’s happiest moments. We owned a small shop that was our only source of income. Our life was simple, but we felt safe… until our dreams were crushed beneath the rubble."

On the morning of October 10th, we didn’t wake up to an alarm clock — we woke up to a missile tearing through the sky, crashing down on our home. Within seconds, everything turned to darkness and silence. We were buried under rubble, hearing each other’s faint moans, whispering, 'Are you still alive?'. That night felt longer than a lifetime, every second a battle between hope and despair. There was no water, no air, no light — only dust in our mouths and fear in our lungs.

The next morning, we were pulled from the debris. But we didn’t emerge as people… we came out as ghosts. Our faces covered in ash, our hearts heavy with grief. Our home was gone. No photos. No memories. Nothing. We walked barefoot out of the ruins of our life… and the world had no idea that under those stones, we had already died a thousand times."

"We had no choice but to flee — from death to the unknown. On October 15th, we left everything behind… leaving northern Gaza with only our bodies. No clothes, no food, no water — just terrified faces and trembling hearts. We reached Khan Younis after a painful journey and sought shelter in a crowded school, believing it might be safe.

But the school was no refuge… it was a cage where we waited for death. No water, no food, no privacy, not even space to lie down our exhausted bodies. Children cried from hunger, adults collapsed from fatigue, and each day brought news of another family buried under rubble. We lived fifty days in hunger, humiliation, and cold. Everything around us was falling apart. We looked up at the sky and asked: do we still have a place in this life?"

"But even that hell didn’t last. Suddenly, without warning, tanks stormed the school’s surroundings. We had no time to gather anything… the bombing was above our heads, and flames chased us from every direction. We were besieged inside the school for an entire week. We slept on cold floors and ate scraps that wouldn’t feed a child. Every moment, we waited for a missile to end our lives.

We escaped the school under a rain of bullets to a friend’s house in Khan Younis, but it wasn’t safer. Days later, the area was sealed. Snipers everywhere, shooting anyone who dared to move. We were trapped for ten days—no water, no bread, no medicine. We ate animal feed, and some days, not even that. I saw my mother cry silently. My father tried to stay strong, but he was breaking inside. We were melting away from hunger, cold, and fear… and no one heard our cries."

"After ten days of agony, we decided to leave everything behind and try to escape to Rafah. We walked barefoot for hours, with no transportation and no hope of getting there. All we could do was walk under the fire and bombing. Life was still tightening around us, and every step felt closer to death. Along the way, we saw dismembered bodies and human remains lying in the streets. We felt like we would never make it.

We finally reached Rafah, but we were worse off than ever. We found no place to take shelter but the streets. We didn’t know where to go or how to keep going. We had nothing but our hunger and our pain. After two days of sleeping in the street, we started trying to build a tent. We had no money, no materials—only our tired hands and the little will we had left. The tent we built couldn’t protect us from the freezing cold or the heavy rain. We were living in an open hell, with no one hearing us, and no one giving us hope. All our dreams were lost in the abyss of this war. Yet, we still fight to survive, despite everything."

At night, the rain floods our tent. Water seeps beneath our bodies, and the cold bites into our bones. We curl up, shivering, praying the wind won't tear our only shelter apart. By day, the sun scorches us, the violence surrounds us, and fear never leaves—not for a single breath.

From my broken heart, beneath a torn tent battered by wind and soaked in tears, I cry out:

We deserve to live… please don’t deny us that right.

We are not numbers. We are not just headlines. We are human beings—families, children, dreams, and memories buried beneath the rubble. Every act of kindness, no matter how small, carries great meaning. Every share, every dollar, every prayer lights up the darkness of our nights.

Please, don’t turn away. Your compassion can restore what the war has destroyed. You could be the reason someone survives this nightmare.

Even among the ashes… we are still holding on to life.

Please—hold on to us, too.