15-Year-Old Mira's Heartfelt Postcard from War-Torn Gaza to Sweden

Mira is 15 years old and hungry. Always hungry, always scared, always exhausted. "I try to study at home, but most of the time we are busy surviving," she writes. This is her postcard from the war.

Hello Sweden,

Spy drones buzz above us. The sound is always there—a constant threat in the air. In Gaza, we've forgotten what silence sounds like. Explosions are also heard, sometimes far away, sometimes dangerously close.

My name is Mira, I'm 15 years old, and I live in a burnt-out home in Gaza City with my three younger sisters and my parents. I'm always hungry, always scared, always tired. We returned here after months of fleeing between different tent camps. Better ruins than humiliation, that's how we think.

My day starts with carrying water up five flights of stairs. Then we bake. It takes two hours to bake bread over a wood fire, but that's all we have—a slice of bread each, baked on Gaza-dukkah, which is roasted wheat. Flour is no longer available.

Sometimes I film our daily life with my dad's mobile. One video shows dust floating after an explosion, plastic fluttering from the shockwave. Then silence. Not calm, just emptiness.

When we hear explosions nearby, we all huddle together tightly.

We sometimes receive cans of peas and carrots from aid shipments. We used to collect hot food from nearby stations, but after Israeli soldiers started shooting at people in the food line, we no longer dare. Several hundred people have been killed there. Even food has become life-threatening here, where I live.

I have lost several friends in the war and my favorite teacher, Youssra. She died along with her son when the Israeli military stormed the Shifa hospital. I still cry when I think of her.

When the war started, I was 13. We fled to Rafah. I didn't have time to take my drawings. I want to become a fashion designer. Schools have been closed for two years. Some are used as refugee shelters. I try to study at home, but most of the time we are busy surviving.

We barely eat. Vegetables and meat are luxuries. A clove of garlic costs 11 kronor, a kilo of tomatoes over a hundred. (Converted from shekels, editor's note)

We haven't eaten meat in months.

In the evenings, we gather with grandpa, grandma, and the rest of the family. We talk about life before the war. About the sea. About school. About evenings without fear.

We are no longer just hungry for food—we are hungry for everything. For silence, safety, for our schools, our memories, our lives.

Greetings from Gaza