I'm Fares from Gaza. My age doesn't really matter anymore-here, age doesn't make a difference. What matters is that I'm a human being from this land, a person worn out by everything. We're a family of 13. We used to live in a simple house, but it was full of warmth and love. There wasn't always a lot of food on the table, but there was always safety and laughter.
The war stole everything-our childhoods, our dreams, our smiles. Our home was destroyed. Every time we tried to rebuild our lives, we were displaced again. Twenty times we've been forced to flee, leaving behind memories and running into the unknown. Every time we told ourselves, "Maybe this is the last time," but the war always comes back-harsher than before.
The ceasefire felt like a deep breath, but it didn't last. The bombing returned, the sounds that never leave your ears came back. The fear in the children's eyes returned. My mother doesn't have the energy to cook anymore-even if she had something to cook. There's no gas, no water, no electricity. Now we're living in a tent. A tent that doesn't shield us from the cold at night or the heat during the day. We're living like guests in our own country-as if we don't belong to this land.
I'm tired. Tired of seeing my siblings cry from hunger. Tired of hearing my mother pray with her hands raised and no one answering. Tired of dreaming and waking up to the sound of drones. I don't want much from this life-just one day without fear, without running, without blood. Maybe the world has forgotten Gaza, forgotten our pain, but we're still here. Still holding on. Still trying to live... even if it's under a tent.
