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My name is Hamza. I am 32 years old, but I feel a hundred.
War has aged my heart, and fear has become my shadow.
I live in Gaza—what was once our home is now a memory buried under rubble and ashes.

I have two children: Musab and Manal.
They are my strength, my reason to keep breathing.
But how do you protect your children from hunger, from cold, from bombs falling in the night?
How do you explain to your son why he can’t go to school?
Why he can’t draw or play or laugh like other children?

Musab is smart—so smart. His eyes sparkle with curiosity.
But now they are dimmed by war, by loss, by fear.
He was supposed to learn, to grow, to dream.
Instead, the war has taken all of that from him.
He sits beside me in the tent, silent… too silent for a child his age.

Manal is younger, still full of innocence,
but even she knows what it means to be hungry.
She wakes up crying from the cold, asking for warmth, asking for food—
and most days, I have nothing to give.

We live in a tent in Khan Younis.
In the burning heat of summer, we suffocate.
In the freezing rain of winter, we shiver.
We have no home. No safety.
Only fear. Only survival.

I am a father. I am supposed to provide.
But here, in Gaza, even the most basic needs—bread, medicine, shelter—feel like unreachable luxuries.
Every night I wonder: will we make it till morning?
And every morning, I thank God we’re still alive—but I know many others are not.

This is not life. This is not what my children deserve.
And yet… we endure.
Because we have no other choice.

To the world, I say:
Don’t forget us. Don’t turn your eyes away.
My children are not numbers.
We are human. We are hurting.
And all we ask for is a chance to live.

Pray for us. Speak for us.
Let Musab and Manal know the world has not gone completely silent.