I choke from the smoke, my eyes sting to the point of tears, my hands are blackened and cracked: all for a hot drink or a plate of canned food.

We never imagined the day would come when we’d eat a falafel meal with so much eagerness and longing.

Wael Al-Dahdouh was completely committed to his work, yet his equal commitment to his family forced him to make the hard decision to leave Gaza.

Even after so many wars on Gaza, the residents never become accustomed to them.

The children in my kindergarten class are deprived of their most basic rights, even on the special day reserved for them.

I can’t buy my usual post-exam treats, which makes me sad, but what’s worse is that the store shelves are empty of even basic foods.

Israeli jailers neglected his medical needs when he was inside prison and when he needed assistance returning home.

Students whose education has been cut short by the war search for a purpose as their world collapses around them.

I attended Islamic University of Gaza for just one month before it was targeted by Israeli missiles.

After Obaida went missing, we heard that he was being held by Israel; now we long for his release.

Returning displaced families struggle with destruction, harsh weather, and limited aid despite ceasefire.

I spoke with 20 people in Gaza after the ceasefire. These snapshots convey what survival looks like and what it costs.