Back from hell!

I received this letter from a returnee from the hell of "humanitarian aid," after risking his life to obtain a living and save his children from the savage famine that mercilessly ravages the intestines of the hungry. I am publishing it as it arrived, without interference, because it surpasses everything that has been written and is being written to describe the suffering that the hungry are subjected to in the Gaza Strip:
I had decided to go to Netzarim to get a food basket, taking with me my nephew Ahmed, this young man who excelled in high school and had become the sole breadwinner for his family.
To be among the first to arrive, we left the house at 1:00 AM, thinking we would be ahead of the crowd.
After an hour of walking, we reached the entrance to Nuseirat, where tens of thousands of people were leaning against the walls, everyone whispering, “Lower your head and don’t move. There is a sniper there who will shoot anyone who moves.”
My nephew said to me, "Never mind, let's continue. These people come every day and get nothing."
We advanced until we reached the entrance to Al-Bureij, and the scene was similar, but here they told us: “There is sniping, and martyrs are lying in the street.”
Fear rose, but Ahmed insisted: "Let's go further."
We continued until we reached the "Kazya", and the number there was smaller, but the fear was greater.
I told him, "We have to stop. We are exposed. We can hear bullets whistling around us, and shells hitting the entire area."
My nephew looked at me in surprise and said, "We are waiting for who? For them to let us in?!"
Before I could respond, he said, "Now we'll gather 50 or 60 people, raise our hands, and run toward the barrier. That's the way to get in."
I told him, "They will kill us!"
He said, "You and your luck. If I run, don't look for me. We will separate and we will not meet until we return... that is, if we return."
I told myself, "It's a deadly adventure, but my children deserve to have me die for their livelihood... or so I thought."
After 20 minutes of waiting, about 50 of us had gathered, including five girls in their twenties.
We were a test sample for the rest of the crowd... Everyone was watching: Would they get in? Or get killed?
We mustered our courage, sought God's help, repeated the Shahada several times, and set out on our way.
It was only a few moments before the whistle of bullets rang out, the night lights revealed us, and the tragedy began:
Martyrs without heads, another groaning, another saying, "My shoulder," and another, "My chest," and I look behind me, and the road has extended...
To go back is death, to go forward is death, but I carried on, I said, "If I survive, I will never go back."
I crawled on the sidewalk between the corpses, until I reached a ruined house, and ran away...
I carry disappointment and failure on my back, and I ask myself: "A kilo of flour for my life?! Are we that cheap?!"
They played "hunter and food" with us, and we were the hungry mice.
They tore us apart, they shattered our identity, I almost never returned to my children...
I saw the martyr lying down, and no one dared to touch him, for the next bullet was waiting for you,
His head rolled away, kicked by feet trembling with fear.
As for Ahmed, he came back with some help and said to me:
"I am a young man, not a father or a husband. If I don't die by hunting, I will die of hunger."
I arrived home at 4 am…
I looked at my sleeping children, my heart filled with gratitude...
I prayed, thanked God, and cried.

note:
The organization announces on its pages that aid distribution begins at 6 a.m., but in reality, they open the gates at 4 a.m., to provide a ready-made pretext...