Living in Gaza during this war has been incredibly difficult — constant bombing, displacement, hunger and fear have become part of daily life.
In these conditions, diseases have started to spread rapidly, especially with the lack of clean water, food and proper sanitation. I have been diagnosed with hepatitis and I need proper nutrition and medical care, but do without. There aren’t even the most basic things that could help me cope with the illness, such as sugar, for example, something that could give my body even a small boost of energy.
No medicine. Not even safe drinking water.
And the most painful part? Reaching a point where you feel as if a burden, as if you’re asking for something impossible, when it’s just the bare minimum.
My body gets weak so fast — constant fatigue, feeling lightheaded, and this heavy feeling I am always on the edge of collapse, not just from illness, but from hunger, too.
I am not alone. There are children, women, the elderly — all facing the same thing. Food is scarce. Aid isn’t enough. Every meal becomes a calculation: How to stretch what little we have for as long as possible?
The church became our only shelter. They tried to help — distributing food, providing water, and offering a place to sleep. But the needs were far greater than the resources.
We started counting pieces of bread, saving portions for later, trying to make everything last just a bit longer.
Hearing someone say, “There’s a food package,” felt like a treasure. But even that was short-lived, and the need has never stopped.
I work in social services — my job is to be with people, listen to them, support them, follow up with them. But because of the war, I’m currently unable to go to work.
The bombings, the fear, the unstable situation — every day brings a new tragedy, a new loss.
There’s no safety. No space to meet beneficiaries. No way to move freely. And the most heartbreaking part? Many of the people I used to follow up with — they’re gone. People I knew, people I supported from afar or through communication — are now just names and photos.
The strikes on Gaza didn’t just destroy buildings — they shattered souls.
The strikes have flipped our lives upside down. Nothing feels certain — not the future, not even the present. Even the places we once thought were safe, like churches, have not been left untouched.
The Orthodox Church of St. Porphyrios was bombed twice. And each time, we lost people — our family members, friends, neighbors.
The Latin Church of the Holy Family was also hit twice. And both times felt like a deep wound, not just to the walls, but to our spirits.
We started feeling as if there’s no safe place left. No home. No street. Not even a church.
Psychologically, we’re drained. Constant stress. Fear. Loss after loss.
And it seems like this isn’t ending anytime soon.
Honestly, we’re exhausted. Worn out. We’ve been stretched thin — emotionally, mentally, physically.
And food? Even if it exists — we can’t afford it. Prices are sky-high. There’s no cash flow.
We’ve been surviving on canned food, and our bodies can’t take it anymore. It’s affecting our health — nutritionally, physically, emotionally. Our stomachs hurt, our strength is fading, and the pain is now both inside and out.
I’m recording this today to make sure our voices are heard to show that hunger isn’t just a number, and bombings aren’t just background noise on a TV screen.
We are real people, living through all of this — with our bodies, our pain, our stories.
Hunger, illness, fear, deep sadness and loss.
And I’m one of these stories, still holding on, we’re surviving simply because we must.
Nataly Sayegh coordinates social and pastoral projects for Caritas, Jerusalem, the social service charity of the Catholic community in Palestine and Israel.