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Ranosh
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I'm Rana, 16, clinging to life in Gaza with my 63-year-old grandmother, my only anchor after the war tore my parents away. Their absence haunts me—every night, I see their faces, hear their laughter, and wake up with an ache that never fades. Grandma's warm hugs and soft voice keep me going, but her tired eyes betray the pain she hides.

Our tiny home, with its cracked walls, holds our fragile world together. Grandma’s battling diabetes, and watching her wince as she skips her medicine because we can’t afford it breaks my heart. Sometimes, she sells her old treasures—little pieces of her past—just to buy food or pills. Each sale feels like losing another part of her.

I pour myself into school, clutching my worn books, dreaming of becoming a doctor to heal people like us, who’ve known too much pain. But the fear never leaves—every distant boom makes me grab Grandma’s hand, terrified it could be our last moment. She whispers, “Stay strong, Rana,” but I see her tremble too.

I wrestled with my pride to ask for help, my chest tight with shame, but I’m desperate. Grandma is my everything—my mother, my father, my home. The thought of losing her rips me apart. If anyone can offer even a sliver of hope, it would mean the world to us. I’m Rana, carrying a heart full of grief but still holding onto dreams.