My 13-year-old nephew, Mohammed, was cradling his tiny belly, which had become more accustomed to hunger than food. It was evening, and the house was dark except for a candle that barely lit the corner where he was sitting. His mother tried to hide her tears as she said to him, “Sleep, Mom, and tomorrow, God willing, we’ll eat.”
But Mohammed wouldn’t sleep…
He kept staring at the ceiling and whispering, “I wish bread could go back to the way it was… I wish I could fill myself with even a small piece of bread.” He went to the food banks every day to get even a little for his younger siblings and his mother, who was sick with cancer. Most of the time, he returned without food.
In his small eyes, a painful question loomed: “Why are we hungry? What is our fault?”