Life has changed in every possible way. Our home is gone, and the streets I used to walk feel like memories from another world. My mother is sick, suffering from a severe stomach infection caused by the contaminated water we’ve been forced to drink. The doctors once suspected it might be something deeper—possibly an infection spreading to her pancreas—but there are no tests, no medicine, and no hospitals that can truly help her now. I watch her grow weaker each day, her pain hidden behind a tired smile as she tells me not to worry.

My sister is also unwell, her body worn down by the same unclean water and the endless stress of survival. I do my best to care for them—fetching what little water I can find and searching for food to keep us going. Every task feels heavier now—but I remind myself that I am strong because I must be.

Still, even in the ruins, I search for light. I find hope in the smallest things—the sunrise over the tents, a kind smile from a neighbor, the sound of my mother’s voice whispering prayers at dawn. I tell my sister that one day, we will rebuild. That one day, the world will be quiet again, and we’ll walk freely under a peaceful sky. Until then, I hold on to faith, love, and the belief that even in Gaza, hope is stronger than fear.