He opened the parcel as if opening a small window to dignity, one that overlooked a hesitant glimmer of hope. Inside, he found rice, oil, some canned goods… nothing extravagant, but just enough to keep his children alive for another day. He ran his hand gently over a can of hummus as if comforting an old friend, then lifted his gaze to the sky and whispered with a heavy heart, “Alhamdulillah… we did not go hungry today. That alone is a victory.”

The tears welling in his eyes were not tears of pity, but a strange mix of gratitude and bitterness. Gratitude that someone, somewhere, remembered there are mouths still waiting in Rafah; bitterness because the world seems to have forgotten that dignity cannot be boxed, and that life is not something that can be canned.

That box was more than food. It was a declaration of existence. It was proof that beneath the rubble, beneath the siege, hearts still beat, children still smile at the scent of fresh bread, and mothers still prepare simple meals with the last flickers of dreams in their eyes.

In Rafah, blessings are not measured by abundance, but by arrival. And that food box, for that man, was not just a meal… it was a message that said: "You are still here. And you are still worthy of life."