They targeted schools. We did too.

But they came with bombs. We came with hope and care.

They left behind dead children and broken hearts. We left children feeling a little more alive, with happier hearts.

This post needs as much sharing and reach as possible. Thank you.

Hello there. This is Dr. Ali, an emergency doctor. I am currently surviving a genocide. I have been here since the very beginning, trying to communicate the human pain, the truth, and the struggle for survival.

These days I feel devastated, drained of energy, hope, and life. It feels like the end of the world. I've felt this way many times before.

But even so, I decided to take photos and make a video of myself smiling at life

Living through days no human should ever have to endure, then moving into days that are less horrible, and then suddenly falling back into horror again, confuses the mind.

Living through days no human should ever have to endure, then moving into days that are less horrible, and then suddenly falling back into horror again, confuses the mind.

Is it okay to feel okay on the better days? Is it okay to feel broken on the worst ones? When I felt lighter, did that mean I forgot my losses? Or on the dark days, do I torture myself by overthinking, as if peace is a betrayal? Did I survive by allowing myself to dream of peace? And when war returned, did that mean I was stupid?

I didn’t always know what to do, but I gave my absolute best. I was a man. A dead man, trying to save the dying.

If there were no leaders who choose power over humanity, every child, those murdered and those who survived, would be living the childhood they deserve.

If there were no genocide, no occupation, I would be living my dreams. My family and friends would be living theirs, in peace, like everyone else living a normal life.

I'm back home. In one piece. And stil, it feels like the end of the world, my world, everyone's world here.

It hurts when people imagine me dead, when all l need is for them to believe that I will survive.

I witness what I witness during my shifts, then wake up wondering what has gone wrong with me, as if

Today, this person suffered burns over 100% of their body. It was completely prevent able. He was watched gasping his last breath, while his family desperately wished for him to survive.

This is me, and this is my path. Killing all of us will never bring them safety. Any place a Hamas member enters becomes "Hamas infrastructure" in the eyes of the army of Diabers.

They attack everything their fear touches. They erase as many lives as it takes to feel immortal.

I am 'abused' by war criminals and pedophiles. I am stuck in a traffic of hells. Every step carries struggle, along with a frustrating weight of pain and anger.

Thank you from the heart, for granting me this great honor, to be a reason warmth reached thousands of forgotten children in Al-Nuseirat camp.

This mission was one of the most sincere and deeply human experiences of my life.

I took this photograph today, after witnessing the massacre. I wanted to show you the moon in the sky, resting above the olive tree.

848 days

Around midday, I was working alongside Aboud, Moaz, my brother Mahmood, his friend Hossam, and other young men, dedicating ourselves to a vital mission, preparing blankets, shoes, and winter clothing packages to bring whatever warmth we could to the forgotten children living along the shore of our camps.

I survived my 24-hour shift without painkillers, even though I was in pain the entire time. My pain is valid, it is human pain. But what feels even more valid is the pain of others.

For human beings, being forced to live in constant pain, without the space or the time to let your body rest, is beyond awful.

I almost feel done. Finished.

I feel tired all the time, and there is always an ache inside me, sometimes in one place, sometimes everywhere.

I have no energy left to fight for my freedom. It feels as if it was never meant for someone like me. Our idea of freedom was simple; just to feel human.

I still have faith, but I no longer have hope. I feel as though I have lost so much of what once made me feel human.

My life has been nothing but endless moments of oppression, frustration, and injustice. My home is collapsing on my chest, both literally and metaphorically.

Marhaba. For whoever cares. I'm sick. And I'm exhausted by all sorts of infections, by every cause of fatigue in my collapsing world, by the endless ways suffering presents itself. I'm tired of being sick, tired of searching for treatment that doesn't exist.

I'm stuck in a place where mercy feels absent. Death here is an epidemic, and life has become the exception.

It feels like being thrown into a vast space, not knowing where you are going, or when you will arrive. You are moving forward while carrying human lives, responsible for their survival and well-being.

It feels like walking without caution through a field of bombs, anxious at every step. Living life here is like being paralyzed and still having to make the right moves, to prove your worth. Like being blind and forced to find your way through danger. It feels like practicing patience in hell. Like watching heaven from a distance, rarely allowing yourself to dream of it. Like trying to solve an endless, unsolvable maze.

At the hospital last night, inside the makeshift medical tent, I sawa middle-aged mother lying on the first bed near the entrance. Her face was pale. She was dressed in black. I was busy caring for other patients, moving from one emergency to another. When I finally sat down in the small office chair opposite her bed, I noticed she was lying on her right side, very still.

Her young daughter sat beside her on the same bed, tired, restless, on the verge of tears.

It is three o' clock after midnight in Gaza. Families are literally dying from the cold now, in the darkness.

Tonight, I am sleeping outside my home, at a friend's house, for one essential reason: I never want to give up my humanitarian role in saving lives.

My friend is asleep, and none of my family knows where I am.