Gaza
By: Alejandra Vergara A
The morning sun in Gaza no longer carries the promise of a new day, but merely the opportunity to survive another day.
For Ahmed Al-Sharif, a 25-year-old from Nuseirat Camp, the sun was once a quiet invitation to paint, to laugh with family, to build a simple dream.
Today, the same sun rises over the ruins of his dream... rising over a besieged homeland and a heart in pain.
Ahmed is neither a soldier nor a politician. He is a young man who paints life with the colors of hope. He invented a water pump with his own hands to provide for his family.
He is also engaged to a girl he loves wholeheartedly, he dreams of marrying her one day; but the war stole even that moment of joy, and it also took his brother... an irreplaceable piece of his soul.
Despite everything, the war could not take away his humanity.
It did not break his pure heart, nor did it extinguish the kindness he insists on preserving, even amidst the ashes.
Every morning, Ahmed begins his day with hunger.
Not just hunger... but hunger for dignity, for justice, for life.
He walks through destroyed streets not in search of hope, but for something to feed his mother, his siblings, and his cat "Lisa," who has given birth to helpless pups.
Innocent souls cling to him alone, and he refuses to abandon them.
Ahmed does not ask for much.
He only asks to live in peace, to eat without humiliation, to love without restriction, to live as every human being on this earth deserves.
I can only see in Ahmed a kind person, with a heart full of love and compassion.
In the midst of war, amidst hunger and fear, this young man still thinks of his cat Lisa and her kittens, and of all the stray animals he tries to save. This is Ahmed... he forgets no one, even in the worst of circumstances.
He launched a donation campaign not only to feed himself, but also to provide food for those innocent souls: cats, dogs, and even the people around him.
In Gaza, survival has become a daily gamble.
Yet Ahmed continues to find a way to care for others. He walks long distances to check if anyone has managed to send money.
Although hope in Gaza is painful, he doesn't give up.
When he finally arrived at the remittance office, he was told the amount he received was $1,000, but what he received was only $470.
53% was deducted under the name "fees."
Theft... but legal. Because everything in Gaza has a price, even survival.
He didn't argue, he didn't scream. He took what was left and walked away silently.
Because he didn't want to be like them. He didn't want to steal; he didn't want to fight the hungry over bags of rice thrown out of trucks. He just wanted to remain human... in a world that had lost its humanity.
He says, "I am a human being, and I cannot live in this humiliating way."
He once told me that he feels alienated when he looks in the mirror... even when he's at home, even among his family. There's a kind of pain that seeps deep inside... leaving you with nothing but a shell.
You become just a shadow.
Then he spoke words that tore my heart apart:
"Death... sometimes feels like a relief."
Not because he wants to die. But because surviving this way, day after day, in hunger, fear, and humiliation... feels like a prolonged punishment. Because dignity in Gaza is not a choice... but rather resistance that is paid for at a high price.
And yet, Ahmed returns in the evening with a bag of flour, two cans of food, and whatever else he can find. His cat, Lisa, greets him at the door, her kittens curled up in a warm corner.
They are safe, just for a moment.
They spend time together, praying. Amid this pitch-black darkness, he still whispers simple dreams... of a normal life, of light, of a morning without bombing.
And then, silence. Why am I telling you all this?
Because it's the truth.
Because it's the life of one human being, on one day, in Gaza. And because that alone... is enough to shake the heart.
Ahmed's story isn't a passing headline, nor a number in statistics. It’s a reminder that humanity isn't about power, but about compassion. In refusing to turn away.
And who am I? I’m Alejandra, 31, from Colombia. Just a human that is also overwhelmed by what’s happening in Gaza and unable to stay silent. Ahmed’s story reminded me that no matter where we’re from, our humanity connects us. This is my way of standing with him, and with everyone longing for peace.
What can you do?
💡
Go to his GoFundMe. Follow him. Share his story.
Do not stop talking about Gaza. Do not let this story disappear. And ask yourself, what happened to us as humans?
And if your heart aches as you read this, then you still have one.
Don't waste that humanity.
