It’s almost impossible to find words heavy enough to hold the pain of living in a tent in Gaza right now.
Imagine your home turned to rubble in seconds. The walls that held your memories, laughter, love — gone. You run, you survive, but what kind of survival is this? You’re not running toward safety — just away from death. You end up in a tent, stitched together by grief and thin fabric, with no doors to shut out the fear.
The tent doesn’t keep out the cold at night. It doesn’t block the sun that punishes you by day. The wind howls through it like a reminder — you have nothing now. The ground is hard. The air is dry. Food is a luxury. Water is a prayer. You hold your child close and pretend you’re strong, but you’re breaking inside. And no matter how tightly you hold them, you can’t protect them from this.
You hear drones above you. Bombs in the distance. Your heart skips with every sound — not because it’s new, but because it’s never stopped. Sleep is rare. Peace is gone. Hope — that’s the hardest to hold onto. Because when everything is taken from you, how do you keep hope alive?
And still, people go on. Somehow. In the darkness of that tent, mothers still sing to their babies. Children still find ways to laugh, if only for a second. That’s the heartbreaking part — the humanity still trying to exist in a place that’s been stripped of it.
It’s not just hard to live in a tent in Gaza during this war. It’s inhumane. It’s a wound that doesn’t close. A nightmare that doesn’t end when you open your eyes — because this is the reality.
No one should have to call that tent a home. Not now. Not ever.
