This boy takes on family responsibilities. He uses fire to help his mother cook because there is no gas available. Photo: Nada Hamdona

In Gaza, I no longer wait for a miraculous event that will instantly restore my hope. Rather, I look for the little things that keep my heart from breaking and crumbling: the smile of a child, the hand of a neighbor reaching out, or the quiet resilience of those who have lost both their parents and all of their siblings. Life here is exhausting, precarious, and often cruel, yet these fragments of compassion sustain me.

In my work with the Ministry of Relief (part of the Palestinian Employment Fund), I move among ripped and flimsy tents in Hayy Al-Rimal, a neighborhood in Gaza City, to provide aid and monitor conditions. On social media, the world has seen many images of Gaza these past 28 months of war, but I can see things that cameras cannot capture. Every day in my job I see faces that have lost even the capacity to recall the most fundamental aspects of a typical life and youngsters who have matured beyond their years. Although a camera conveys damage, it fails to convey the anguish and burden that each heart bears. It doesn’t demonstrate how a child’s innocence wanes too quickly or how abruptly they assume adult responsibilities.

One day while we were distributing rice dinners, a boy whose family was killed approached me. He accepted the plate before unexpectedly breaking down in tears. “It reminds me of my mother’s cooking,” he added in a shaky voice. His uncle later informed me that the youngster says, “I miss my mother’s food and my sisters,” every day and that he is upset because they “left him.” Even though his uncle loves him and treats him like his own son, the child returns home every night and says, “I am alone… and I wish I had gone with them.”

This 12-year-old child said something to me that I will always remember: “Life has no taste without my family. I wish they had brought me along.” After that day I started going to see him occasionally. Instead of bringing him presents, I go to let him know he is remembered. There are moments when nothing is more valuable than just telling someone that you are in their life.

In another tent, I sat with a woman who had lost her husband. One of her children has cancer, and she looks after two daughters and two sons by herself. “Please, help me… let my voice reach the world,” she murmured in a low, dejected voice as she gazed at me with teary and tired eyes. She claimed that her main wish was to send her son for treatment overseas so that he may experience childhood like everyone else. I silently concurred, understanding that justice is what this suffering needs, not sympathy. It requires a serious listener, not a casual observer. And I know how hard it is to get justice in Gaza.

In another tent, I heard the songs and ululations of a wedding. Yet joy was mixed with sorrow. The groom had lost his mother and sisters, and his eyes brimmed with tears as he remembered them. Soon, everyone around him was crying, too. It was a celebration wrapped in grief, a reminder that even in happiness we carry the weight of loss.

Children collect water to help their families. Instead of going to school they bear responsibilities beyond their age. Photo: Nada Hamdona

Here, learning takes place outside of walls and classrooms. There are no desks or boards, and school is open to the sky. Children sit on the ground with the sun blazing down on their heads.

On a cold and rainy winter day we were photographing tents that were filled with water. A child was standing in front of his “school,” an unroofed tent. The child refused to go home despite the teacher’s attempts to persuade him that there would be no class that day due to the bad weather.

“Why don’t you go?” I asked.

“My mother and father were martyred… I have to learn so I can work and provide for my siblings,” he replied in a painfully composed tone. He was barely 15. I realized then that education in this place is not only a goal or a desire. It is the only way to support a family and lead a dignified life. It is an effort to persevere, to get back up after each setback. These kids attend school to ensure a regular existence and to protect the people they have left, not to fulfill far-fetched fantasies. I often ask myself: Who will relieve them of this suffering? Who will restore everything we have lost? 

I write to inform you that we are still present. Our pain has gotten worse. It is present in every tattered tent, in every small plate of rice, in every cup of tea, in every youth who is unable to study, and in every mother who battles daily to save her children. What keeps us alive is what the camera misses. Never forget us, please. The suffering caused by more than two years of genocide, with the world doing nothing to stop it, continues to grow.

This article is co-published with Washington Report on Middle East Affairs.