Before the war, my life had a clear path, full of hope and dreams, like any young man at twenty-four. I studied electrical engineering and graduated with dedication, dreaming of starting my own business and building a future for my family. I wanted to open a consultancy with my classmates to bring renewable energy solutions to Gaza, where the electricity crisis only grows worse. But suddenly, the war shattered everything I’d built in my mind, leaving nothing but ashes of what I once dreamed. When the missiles started raining down on our homes in northern Gaza, my life was turned upside down. Survival became the only wish we had left. We fled with little more than what we could carry, leaving behind the home that had held our childhood memories, our dreams, and all the days we’d once cherished. Now, in the far south of Gaza, we survive in a tiny tent with 18 family members, including 13 children and a tiny baby, whose eyes barely open to a life he’s just begun to face. Every morning, I wake up to the cries of the children around me, searching for food, for water; the youngest wails for milk. They look up at me with wide eyes filled with fear and questions, wondering if there’s a day they’ll go back to their homes and dreams. In those moments, I feel the weight of responsibility pressing down on me, intensified by the tears of the little ones and the worried faces of my parents, who no longer have the strength to face these conditions.

My father, my greatest support, was severely injured in his leg while we fled from the bombs. He barely survived after a grueling, hours-long surgery, but now he needs another critical operation, something that can’t be done here. The cost of treatment abroad is miles beyond what we could ever afford. To provide for my family, I started working in water distribution, pulling a simple cart for long hours through neighborhoods. Every day, I return exhausted, yet I push myself to keep going. Every cent I earn goes toward buying diapers and milk for the children, food for my mother, father, and siblings—just to keep that fragile glimmer of hope alive in their eyes.

As my father’s condition worsened, I had no choice but to start an online fundraising campaign, though I felt a wave of shame in asking for help. But I was out of options; my father’s life hung in the balance. With the kindness of others, we managed to collect part of the amount needed, and I continue to work tirelessly, hoping to complete what’s left and witness his recovery, hoping that some sense of normal life might return Today, I feel as if my age has doubled. I was waiting to start a life filled with accomplishments and dreams, yet I’m living a reality filled with heavy challenges, shouldering the burden of a whole family and working just to survive. And even now, after reaching the goal to treat my father, my heart remains tied to northern Gaza, where I left behind friends and neighbors struggling under the bombings. I wish I could help them, even in some small way, this week.

This war has not only stolen my home and my dreams but has also left a deep scar in my heart. I am now a young man displaced, caught between hope and fear, living each day for those I love, fighting to keep that last spark of life from fading in their eyes.

Capitalism breaks our spirit by forcing us to claw our way through life as commodities. It pits us against one another. It rips away our humanity. It destroys empathy. It destroys our sense of community. It destroys families. It orders us to chase that next paycheck AT ALL COSTS.