He Reported on Hunger. Then He Lived It

He Reported on Hunger. Then He Lived It

I used to believe that journalism was a form of survival. If I could tell the story well enough, someone would listen. Someone would act. Someone would save a life.

Maybe even mine.

But then the war outlasted my notebooks.

🎙️ The Journalist

My name is Yihya Al-Awadi. Once, I stood in the streets of Gaza with a microphone in hand, determined to report what others ignored. I documented bombed-out classrooms and children scribbling math problems on broken chalkboards.

Back then, hunger was a subject I described in careful words and polished headlines. A tragedy I could write about but never quite touch.

Until it came home.

🍞 The First Sacrifices

It started quietly. My children skipped meals, not because they weren’t hungry, but because there was nothing left to give them.

That’s when hunger stopped being a headline. It became our daily reality.

The first thing I sold was my motorbike—dented, worn, but once my lifeline. I had used it to chase stories, to beat curfews, to feel free.

I traded it for four loaves of bread, a can of oil, and a box of tea bags.

Then came the camera.

Then the microphone.

Finally, the press vest with my name stitched across it—proof that once, my voice mattered.

Each of those items became meals. Meals that lasted less than a week.

👨‍👩‍👧‍👧 The Father

I had written about fathers breaking under the weight of their children’s hunger.

Now I was one of them.

I watched my two daughters tear dry bread into tiny crumbs, as if making it smaller would make it last longer. My wife pretended she had already eaten so the girls wouldn’t worry.

And me? I sat with a notebook full of empty pages, ashamed. How could I keep writing about other people’s pain when I was drowning in my own?

🔇 The Silence

I used to speak loudly into microphones. I used to ask questions no one wanted to answer.

But these days, my voice has grown quiet. I whisper prayers instead. Apologies.

Sorry I couldn’t provide more.

Sorry I couldn’t protect them.

Sorry I’m still here, when so many are not.

People say journalists should stay neutral. But I lost my neutrality the day I traded my last piece of gear for food and watched my children fall asleep hungry.

Neutrality doesn’t exist when your kitchen is empty.

📝 The Hardest Story

I haven’t written in weeks. Just scraps of thoughts on torn paper, hidden under a floor mat. Half-prayers. Half-pleas.

But if I’m honest, this is the hardest story I’ve ever told—the story where the journalist becomes the headline.

The story where the hunger is louder than the words.

And no byline will ever bring back what I’ve lost.

💔 What Remains

Still, I write it.

Because maybe someone will read these words and understand that survival isn’t about microphones or breaking news. It’s about bread on the table. Medicine for the sick. The simple dignity of eating without fear of running out.

We don’t need heroes. We need humanity.

And perhaps the greatest act of compassion is to remember families like mine—not just when bombs fall, but when the bread is gone.

🌍 A Gentle Request

If this story reaches you, please don’t let it vanish into silence.

Support families however you can—through donations, through awareness, through kindness. Even the smallest act matters.

Because somewhere in Gaza, there is a man who once gave his voice to tell the world’s stories… and then gave it up so his children could eat.

Don’t let that sacrifice go unheard.