My name is Motaz. I am 30 years old, a journalist from Gaza. For years, I wrote about the suffering of others, telling their stories to the world. I never imagined that one day, I would write my own story like this. I was just a father, dreaming of a colorful room for my only child, promising him toys, books, and bedtime stories. I wanted to fill his life with colors and laughter. But in a single moment, all the colors faded. A deafening explosion... a piercing scream... and my world collapsed. I lost my only child. I held him in my arms as he slipped away, powerless to save him. Now, my wife lies weak on a thin mattress, her body ravaged by blood poisoning from bombs and toxic gases. Every day, I watch her suffer, unable to do anything but watch. My room is cold, empty. The books that once brought me comfort now haunt me with silence. The toy that was meant to bring my child joy now lies abandoned on the floor. We survive on stale bread and water. Every day is a battle against hunger, against despair, against death. I keep writing, hoping that maybe — just maybe — my words will reach someone’s heart. If you want to know more about my story and what we are enduring, please visit my page. Maybe a word, a prayer, a message... could bring a small light into this darkness.