My name is Yamen Nashwan, and I am from Gaza. My family and I have been displaced five times since the conflict began, and each time, our situation has only worsened.

The first time we were forced to leave was from our home in Beit Hanoun. We sought refuge at my sister Nour's house in the Jabalia camp, hoping to find some safety there. But the war didn’t spare us. When the situation became unbearable, we had to walk nearly 20 kilometers with my sick father and mother to Al-Shifa Hospital in western Gaza.

There were no means of transportation available, and the streets were unsafe. Prices for basic necessities were skyrocketing, and we had already lost our jobs, leaving us without any income to support ourselves.

Our journey didn’t end there. From Al-Shifa, we were forced to move again, this time to a shelter school in the Nuseirat area. The conditions were harsh, but we tried to make do with what little we had.

However, as the conflict continued, we found ourselves moving once more, this time to Rafah, where we now live in a small tent. The tent offers little protection from the elements, and our struggles have only deepened.

One of the most harrowing experiences was when my father, who had already been injured in his foot and suffering, fell and needed urgent medical attention. We had to carry him to the hospital in the dead of night, under the threat of aerial bombardments.

The fear for our lives was overwhelming, but we had no other choice. After a failed surgery in Rafah, we had to move him again to Al-Zawaida, hoping he might recover. However, the lack of food, medicine, and basic care has made his condition worse. We are desperate and exhausted, both physically and emotionally.

Our story is one of countless others in Gaza. We have lost our homes, our jobs, and any sense of normalcy. Imagine my brothers and sisters. The life we lead? Do we deserve this? I had such a beautiful life. How do we go on? 💔

My name is Yamen Nashwan, and I used to live in a beautiful four-story house in Beit Hanoun, Gaza. My life was full of promise—I had a job, dreams for the future, and a close-knit group of friends and family. But all of that was taken away from me when the conflict erupted.

The place I once called home is now just a memory. My family and I were forced to flee, and now we’re living in a small tent in Rafah City. There are 27 of us crammed into this tiny space, including 13 children and a newborn. Every day, we struggle to find food, warmth, and safety. Loved ones.

The dreams I had for the future now feel like distant memories, overshadowed by the daily fight for survival. My friends, my community—so many have been scattered, displaced, or worse. The laughter and joy that once filled my life have been replaced by fear and uncertainty.

The hardest part is the loss of the intangible things—the memories of better times, the bonds with friends and neighbors, and the sense of security that came from knowing we had a home. These things can never be replaced.

Life in Gaza is not just a struggle for survival—it’s a constant reminder of what we’ve lost. I wanted to shed light on the harsh reality we face every day. It’s a life filled with pain, but also with a small, flickering hope that one day, things might change.