Last month, I was waiting for a shared taxi at the Nuseirat roundabout when I witnessed a heartbreaking scene. As I stood by the side of the road, I felt a small hand tugging at my clothes.I looked down and saw a little girl, no older than eight. She was barefoot, her shirt was torn, and her hair was messy and unwashed. Her eyes were beautiful, and her face showed innocence, yet exhaustion and despair clouded it.She pleaded: “Please, please, give me just one shekel, God bless you.”Before I gave her the money, I decided to speak with her. I knelt down and asked, “What is your name, my dear?”She replied in a frightened voice, “My name is Nour, and I am from the north.” Her name, which means “light” in Arabic, stood in stark contrast to the darkness surrounding her.I asked her, “Why are you asking for money, Nour?”She looked at me hesitantly, then whispered, “I want to buy an apple… I crave one.”In Gaza, a single apple now costs $7; before the war, a kilogramme of apples was less than a dollar.I tried to ignore the pain rising in my chest. I thought about the circumstances we now face, where young children are forced to beg in the street …
