The hearts of the Gazans have hardened with patience in the face of a humanitarian catastrophe Tel Aviv continues to pursue its barbaric policy in the Strip

The sunset was creeping over the ruins of the camp, casting pale shadows on the remains of shattered walls, when the child “Adam” emerged from the rubble of the neighborhood, carrying in his hands a small plate of rice, wrapped in a layer of dust as if it were a piece of the sky torn away by force.

He was no older than ten, but his eyes were older than the war, deeper than all the news bulletins. In his hand, a plate; in his heart, a homeland. He had obtained it after hours of standing in a long line, with nothing separating him from death but patience. Famine was grinding the souls of the Gazans mercilessly, yet he survived every day by a small miracle.

The barbaric policy of Tel Aviv had left no stone unturned, no loaf unbesieged. Yet Adam walked on, with the confidence of a soldier and the awe of a prophet. Every step took him closer to his mother waiting in a tent patched with memories of the old home, and every bite from that plate was a small victory over the machine of starvation and betrayal.

That plate was not just food. It was a document of survival, a statement of defiance, and a message to the world saying: "We still live... despite hunger, despite war, despite death."

Sidewalks That Cry

In the adjacent alley, the sidewalks wept beneath the feet of children who had grown accustomed to the sound of planes more than the songs of childhood. No schools opened, no swings swayed. Everything here was still as a grave, except the hearts… they groaned. The air was heavy with the smell of gunpowder, and the silence was filled with the voices of the absent—those swallowed by the raids, leaving their names etched on the walls. Gaza does not die, but it bleeds every day, in a silence that resembles a scream.

Amidst this rubble, life was struggling to breathe. A woman lit a fire between two stones to cook what little lentils remained, a child wrote lessons on the sand that were never taught, and a man hung a keffiyeh on a ruined wall as if raising the flag of an unconquerable homeland. Famine is not only in bread, but in security, dignity, and the right to dream without restrictions. And Tel Aviv, with all its demolition machines, could not break the pulse of life in the hearts of the Gazans... it only made them stronger, like shards of light in an endless darkness.