My little brother still smiles, and that's the hardest part
I still remember my little brother before the war.
His name is Majd. He was six years old in one of my favorite memories of him. We were outside in a field in Gaza full of yellow flowers, and he picked one so carefully like it was the most valuable thing in the world. He wore this oversized Superman hoodie every chance he got. He smiled at strangers. He laughed loudly. He looked completely safe.
Now he is ten.
The field is gone. Our home is gone. Most of the places from our childhood are gone.
A few months ago, we lost our mother. Majd was holding her hand when it happened. I think a part of him disappeared that day too.
He still smiles sometimes, and honestly that almost hurts more.
Last week I found him sitting quietly outside our tent, petting a stray cat for nearly an hour without speaking at all. Before the war he never stopped talking. Now there are days where he barely says anything unless someone asks him directly.
Sometimes I scroll through old photos and stop at the ones where he is wearing that Superman hoodie. Same child. Same eyes. Same smile, somehow.
But everything around him changed.
People online talk about Gaza like it is only politics or headlines. For me, it is my little brother sitting in rubble where a neighborhood used to be, trying to comfort a hungry cat while carrying things no child should carry.
I think about the little boy who picked yellow flowers and truly believed the world was gentle. I miss that version of him so much.
I just wanted someone outside Gaza to know that he existed. His name is Majd. He is still here. And I still remember who he was before all of this.