For Mohammed family in Gaza

My name is Mohammad Al-Masri. I am 30 years old. I am not just a number in a war report or a photo among scenes of destruction… I am a father, a husband, and a human being struggling to survive in a forgotten corner of this world — in Gaza, a place worn down by war and consumed by siege.

Two years have passed since the last war that destroyed everything around me: my home, my dreams, and my dignity. I now walk through the rubble, not in search of hope, but for a scrap of bread to silence the hunger of my children… Two little ones who know nothing of politics, who do not understand sanctions or blockades. All they know is that their stomachs ache from hunger, and they haven’t tasted milk in months.

I am a person with a disability. I suffer from a physical impairment in my left leg, making every step a torment. Still, I walk for hours — sometimes I crawl — just to return with something, anything, to keep my family alive. No work. No income. No medicine. No food. Not even diapers to shield my children from the cold and wet.

Can you imagine watching your children cry from hunger, and having nothing to give them? Have you ever tried to hide your tears, to break yourself silently so you appear strong in front of them, even when you are too broken to bear your own pain? I live this reality every single day. Sometimes, I feel like a shadow — slowly fading from the inside — but I keep resisting, for their sake.

Gaza is bleeding. And from its heart, I cry out to you… From beneath the rubble, from amidst pain and ashes — this is the cry of a broken father, still waiting for someone to answer.