I live with my sister Hanin in a small tent on the outskirts of al-Zawaida near Deir al-Balah in the central Gaza Strip. Before the ceasefire, trying to survive the constant Israeli attacks consumed all our time.
Hunger made those days pass with slow, unbearable pain.
Hanin, 26, is a mother to two children, Riad, 5, and Imad, 3. She carries the weight of the world on her shoulders while trying to hide her pain behind a smile that fools no one.
Every morning, I wake up to the sound of Riad trying to craft a new toy from sticks and stones. “I’ll make a tomato tree, and we’ll eat from it every day,” he says with a voice full of hope. Imad sits beside him, clapping enthusiastically as if cheering his brother on to turn the dream into reality.
One day in November 2024 we all sat inside our tent, trying to share what little food we had left: A small piece of bread and a bit of olive oil. Imad, too young to grasp the meaning of hunger, stared at the tiny plate in front of him and then at his mother, as if asking why there wasn’t more.
Riad, with his innocent curiosity, looked at me and asked: “Why can’t we eat until we’re full?”
I had no answer. ,….more
