I'm Yasmin from Palestine, living in Gaza. I'm 29 years old and have four children. The story is this: an intelligence officer called our home phone shortly after sunrise. He spoke to my uncle, my husband's father, and said, "Evacuate the house immediately. It will be bombed in 15 minutes!" Imagine a five-story building housing more than 30 people, forced to evacuate in just fifteen minutes. How? We are now homeless, meaning we have lost our history. Our house was bombed. I stood before the rubble of my home, numb. My emotions were reduced to rubble. Where is the trace of our house? Nothing but dust mixed with the pain of a lifetime. The house is gone, and with it, our stories. But our homeland remains within us, for we have no other. We moved to a shelter in one of the camps. What sustains us through this ordeal is our faith in God and my children. Our souls remain suspended between longing for the past and the bitterness of reality. (Be a voice for Gaza: Support humanitarian efforts to save lives)

Every corner of my house held a story, and today every corner is rubble. My children's room was completely destroyed, their toys were broken and scattered everywhere, and sadness and sorrow filled my children's hearts. The demolished house is a silent scream, but memories cannot be destroyed. (My children are suffering, your support can bring hope and relief, donate now)