I didn't want to write this story.
I wanted to forget it.
I wanted to wake up one day and find that none of this ever happened…
that my children were still sleeping safely in their beds…
that my brother was still alive…
that my home was still standing…
that the sky was just a sky…
But none of that is true.
My name is Ashraf Alshanab.
I am a nurse in Gaza.
And this story…
is not something I created.
It is something I am still living.
Right now.
As you read these words, I am not sitting in a quiet place.
I am not surrounded by peace.
I am not writing from comfort.
I am writing from a place where the ground has been broken more than once…
where the nights are louder than the days…
where sleep is no longer something you trust.
I have a family.
Five of us.
My wife…
my son…
my two daughters…
And one of them is Jory.
You will meet her soon.
But before you do…
you need to understand something.
Jory is not just a character.
She is a piece of my life.
A reflection of a child who still tries to smile in a world that keeps taking things away from her.
Before the war…
we had a home.
It wasn't big.
It wasn't perfect.
But it was ours.
There were walls.
There was a door we could close.
There was a ceiling that didn't shake.
There were nights where my children slept without holding their breath.
That home is gone now.
Not damaged.
Not cracked.
Not repairable.
Gone.
Completely.
The land it stood on…
gone.
The memories inside it…
scattered.
And now…
we live in a tent.
A thin piece of cloth that moves with the wind…
that does not stop the heat of summer…
that does not stop the cold of winter…
that does not stop anything.
Not the noise.
Not the fear.
Not the nights that feel like they will never end.
I lost more than a home.
I lost my brother.
My real brother.
The one who knew me before I became this person.
The one who shared my childhood.
The one who was supposed to grow old with me.
He is gone.
And there is no sentence in any language that can truly explain what that feels like.
I go to the hospital every day.
I see children.
Not stories.
Not characters.
Real children.
With names.
With mothers who wait outside rooms…
hoping to hear that their child will wake up.
Sometimes… they do.
And sometimes…
they don't.
And those moments don't leave you.
They stay.
In your hands.
In your eyes.
In your silence.
You carry them with you… even when you try not to.
So I started writing.
Not because I am a writer.
But because I am someone who could not keep everything inside anymore.
Because there are things a human heart cannot carry alone.
Because silence…
was becoming heavier than words.
So I wrote Jory.
Not to escape.
But to survive.
To give shape to what cannot be said directly.
To tell the truth…
in a way that can still be read.
This story is real.
Not in every detail.
Not in every moment.
But in its heart…
it is real.
It is pain.
It is fear.
It is loss.
It is the sound of a child asking a question you cannot answer.
It is the look in a mother's eyes when she realizes she cannot protect everything.
It is the moment you understand that life will not go back to what it was.
If you continue reading…
you will meet Jory.
And through her…
you will see a world that no child should ever have to see.
But before you turn the page—
I want you to remember something.
This is not just a story you are about to read.
This is a life…
that someone is still trying to survive.