My name is Khalil. I am 10 years old, from Gaza.

I was diagnosed with autism when I was two years old. I was nonverbal, living in my own small world, overwhelmed by sounds, touch, and fear.

Before the war, I received regular therapy at a specialized center. Every morning, my mother held my hand and took me there. I sat with my therapist and learned how to make eye contact, how to calm my body, how to try to shape my first words.

I was improving.

I was getting closer to finding my voice.

Then the war came.

The sound of explosions shakes the walls.

The roar of planes fills the sky.

The ground trembles beneath my feet.

Screams pierce the night.

For most people, these are terrifying sounds.

For a child with autism, they are unbearable storms inside the mind.

The centers closed.

My therapy stopped.

The routine that protected me from chaos disappeared.

I returned to silence.

To isolation.

To fear.

I am nonverbal.

I struggle with hyperactivity, attention difficulties, and bedwetting.

I do not know calm.

I barely sleep — and when I do, I wake up in terror to the sound of another blast.

I have screaming episodes, meltdowns, and moments of running away — not because I am “difficult,” but because my small heart and mind cannot process this constant fear.

And now, there is hunger.

Famine is worsening in Gaza.

Some days, there is barely enough food. My small body — which already needs special care — grows weaker.

Hunger mixed with fear, trauma, and autism is more than any ten-year-old can bear.

I am not asking for toys.

I am not asking for new clothes.

I am asking for a chance to receive therapy again.

For a safe space where I can relearn how to calm down, how to sleep, how to say even one word.

I am asking for a chance to be a child again — even just a little.

Maybe a helping hand today

can give me back the voice that was just beginning to be born.

I am Khalil —

a child who hears the world only as the noise of war,

but who is still waiting for someone to hear his silence.