From the Street to the Bong: The Palestinian Boy No One Saw

“I started smoking at nine. Hit my first bong at eleven.
No dad. No mom. No one to answer to.
Just smoke, silence, and a street I never chose.
We’re all ‘Palestine’ — but mostly for show. Just a word we throw around to dump our rage, because no one really sees us.”

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He was the youngest on the block.
Wanted to be a man. Wanted to matter.
His father died of a heart attack at fifty.
His mother worked three jobs until her body gave in.
His brother ended up in prison — and that’s where he finally got clean.

When the brother got out, he came back to take the boy in.
The boy refused.
But his mother kissed the brother’s hands, slapped her son’s face, and said:
“Say thank you — you’ve got a father now.”

So he went.
And the brother tried — really tried — to bring him back to life.
Five prayers a day. School. Respectful speech.
Told him:
“Violence doesn’t need you — it already has enough souls.
You’re not hurting others. You’re hurting yourself.”

But the boy didn’t believe him.
“I’m a mujahid,” he said.
And went back to the street.
Gathered other broken kids like him.
They spoke of rivers and resistance —
so high they could barely stand.
Just wanted to set the world on fire
like they had burned out their lungs and minds.

📣 If this sounds like your story — or someone you love — you’re not alone.
There’s a way out of the smoke. You don’t have to walk it alone.

🟢 Community-based support organizations:

🟠 Talk. Break the silence. Start walking back. You are worth the journey.

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