Tonight, under the weight of hunger and the silence of a war-torn land, I reached for the last thing I had hidden away — a small packet of fortified biscuits from the United Nations. I had saved it for a moment like this, when hunger becomes more than a whisper… when it claws at the body and soul. Inside: eight small pieces.
Not a feast, not even a meal — but tonight, they were life. I broke them gently and shared them with my family, each of us taking just enough to calm the ache, to quiet the night’s cruel hunger. No crumbs were wasted. No word was spoken. Only eyes met in the dim light — eyes full of gratitude, sorrow, and silent resilience. In this moment, survival tasted like dry biscuits.
But dignity… tasted like sharing.