In a long, endless queue, a child no older than six stands, stripped of everything but the tears streaming down his cheeks, reddened by the blaze of the sun. With his tiny hands, he clutches his empty stomach, sighing in broken breaths, as though each exhale carries the full weight of hunger and heat. His glassy eyes tell a story of pain greater than his frail body can hold—a tale of struggle with the cruelty of days that came too soon.

Between Yesterday and Today Only yesterday, he was running through the alleyways, filling the air with laughter and noise alongside his playmates, painting with his innocence a simple picture of life despite poverty. But that picture was torn apart by the sounds of shelling and death. His friends departed this world, and he was left alone, chasing the mirage of bread and water, searching for anything to ease his hunger and keep him alive.

In his eyes, sorrow blends with bewilderment, as he asks with innocence not yet spoiled by pain: Why did they all leave, and I remained? Why has play become a distant memory, while hunger is now the nearest truth? Around him, the weary press closer, while his crying voice fades into the deafening silence of anguish.

A Mirror of Thousands of Little Faces This scene encapsulates the tragedy of a generation born beneath the rubble, knowing nothing of childhood but its name, and of life nothing but waiting for scraps of survival. That child is not alone—he is the mirror of thousands of little faces withering beneath the sun of oppression, searching for a sip of water, a piece of bread, a touch of tenderness in a world that has turned its back on them.

And the question lingers in the heart: What sin did this child commit to be deprived of his simplest rights? And what heart can turn away from the sight of his tearful eyes, as he sighs from the torment of hunger and heat, as though his silence itself embodies the tragedy of an entire nation?