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Before I write this, I paused for a long time… I didn't know where to begin.

My name is Nasr. This is my first Ramadan without my mom and my sister. The emptiness they left behind isn't just in our home — it's in every moment, every suhoor, every iftar.

I am the oldest among my younger siblings, and a responsibility I never imagined now rests on my shoulders. I try to stay strong in front of them, I try to smile and make them feel like everything is okay… but deep inside? I'm scared.

Eid is coming… and I don't know how to bring them joy. These kids deserve happiness. They deserve Eid gifts. They deserve a smile.

At the same time, my dream of continuing my university education has been delayed — not because I don't want to, but because the circumstances are bigger than me.

I'm not asking for pity. I'm asking for a helping hand.

Any support, no matter how small, will make a huge difference for me and my little siblings this Ramadan and Eid.

🔗 Donation Link:

And while this is happening while people are buried under rubble, while children freeze in tents, while entire families vanish overnight powerful men sit comfortably and present plans for a “New Gaza.”

Clean slides. Perfect buildings. Investment numbers. A future imagined without the people who are currently being erased.

They talk about peace while bombs are still falling. They talk about rebuilding while destruction is ongoing. They draw maps over land that is soaked with blood and call it hope.

The ceasefire is a lie.

What’s happening is ethnic cleansing, repackaged with the language of development and diplomacy. You cannot build a “new” city by destroying the people who belong to it. You cannot promise a future while actively killing the present.

This isn’t peace. It’s violence with better branding.

Today, three journalists were killed in a single airstrike.

Not soldiers. Not fighters. Journalists. People who believed that if they kept documenting, if they kept filming, if they kept writing, the world would eventually care.

In Gaza, telling the truth has become one of the most dangerous things you can do. Holding a camera is treated like holding a weapon. Every photo risks your life. Every report could be your last.

They had names. Families. People waiting for them to come home. They were not numbers, and they were not mistakes. They were silenced because truth is inconvenient, because images expose what statements try to hide.

When journalists are killed, it’s not just lives that are lost it’s evidence. It’s memory. It’s the last barrier between reality and denial.

…

Donations for GAZA

This donation campaign is for ANAS family. Not for strangers, not for a cause I’m distant from but for the people who raised me, the people I love, the people I’m terrified of losing.

They are in Gaza, trying to survive something no human being should ever have to endure. Constant bombardment, displacement, hunger, fear, and the feeling that tomorrow is never guaranteed. Every day is about staying alive one more night.

If you choose to help, you are not donating to an abstract crisis. You are helping real people with names, memories, and lives that matter to me more than anything.

🔗 This is a verified Chuffed campaign to support family:

If you can’t donate, please reblog. Visibility is sometimes the only protection we have left.❤️

  A year has passed since that night, but nothing has really changed Our house is still rubble, our streets still carry the smell of smoke, and the sky still echoes with sounds that make Amira flinch in her sleep. She has just turned one. She’s learning to walk, holding my finger with her tiny hand, laughing at the smallest things — as if she doesn’t see the destruction around her. She doesn’t know the word “loss.” She never met her father, but when she smiles, I see him there. Sometimes I watch her sleeping, and I wonder what kind of world she will grow up in — whether she will ever know what peace feels like, what home smells like. And yet, when she opens her eyes in the morning and says “mama,” everything becomes bearable again. I want to rebuild our home. Not just for the walls — but for her future. For Amira to have a small room, a safe place to dream, a life that belongs to her, not to war. I’m not asking for much. Only for a chance to give her a beginning filled with warmth instead of fear

 A Mother’s Message

Every day here in Gaza feels like a year carved into our chests. The war isn’t like it was in the early days—the sky is quieter, the air carries less smoke, and the nights hold fewer explosions. But the pain… it still lives under the rubble, inside our memories, and in the empty spaces where our loved ones once stood.

I’m writing this today not because the war has completely ended, but because for the first time in a long while, it feels like the horizon is opening a little. A small space where we can breathe, gather ourselves, and try to rebuild what’s left of our lives. Yet every step forward feels like walking on wounded memories, and every stone from our destroyed home whispers stories we never got to finish.

We lived through nights so heavy we thought morning would never come. We lost things that can never be replaced—homes, dreams, pieces of our hearts. But we are still here… holding on, trying, fighting to stay standing despite everything.

And in the middle of this long road… there is a house. A house that once carried laughter, warmth, noise, and life. Today, all that remains is an image holding a memory—and rubble longing for the people who once lived inside.

Today, we are trying to rebuild—not just the walls of a house, but an entire life that was shattered. We are trying to create a new beginning, to live with dignity again, to give our family a sense of safety that we’ve been missing for so long.

We’re not writing this to mourn what was lost, but to ask for a chance to start again. We ask for your support because rebuilding after a war is not something one person can do alone—it is a human effort, a shared act of compassion. We need you. We need your hearts. We need your help to stand again.

Every contribution—no matter how small—makes a difference. It becomes part of our story, part of rebuilding a home, part of reviving a life that nearly faded.

The war may be almost over… but our journey back to life begins now.

Hello, my name is Nadin. I’m from Gaza. I’m a graphic design graduate, a wife—and now, a mother.

I finished my design studies just before the war began. I had dreams of starting a small studio, of creating art that told stories. I used to think about colors and fonts and the future.

Then, the war came. And the future became something we tried to hold onto, moment by moment.

On October 22, 2023, I learned I was pregnant when a missile destroyed my husband’s family home, killing 25 members—his mother, siblings, nieces and nephews—entire branches of our family in seconds.

We were displaced twice. Everything was gone—home, safety, routine, rest.

A few weeks later, I gave birth to our daughter. There was no crib, no celebration—not even stillness. But she arrived, quietly and beautifully. In her eyes I saw something I hadn’t felt in weeks: life that still wanted to grow.

Now, our days are shaped by decisions that could dismantle the future we are trying to build together.

Today, Israel’s government is discussing plans for a full military occupation of the Gaza Strip, including Gaza City and southern regions. The stated aim: to eliminate Hamas and later hand governing control to allied Arab forces—not Israel—but with no clear path to peace or normalcy.

The humanitarian fallout is devastating. More than 61,000 Palestinians have died in this war; hunger and malnutrition are rising sharply. Hospitals in north Gaza have shut down, and 193 people have now died of starvation, nearly half of them children.

Aid remains blocked, water is scarce, and many risk dying of hunger or disease long before future promises arrive.

We Don’t Know What Comes Next There’s no clear path forward—only uncertainty for our daughter’s life and our ability to survive another day.

How You Can Help I’m asking for support—not for comfort, but for survival:

Help us meet basic needs so we can breathe, heal, and preserve a world for our daughter.

Support us as I try to stand again on my own feet—even a glimmer of stability matters.

The war has finally ended, yet inside us, the ruins remain. Homes have fallen, dreams have scattered, and the voices that once filled the air have turned into painful silence. In a single moment, I lost my mother and my sister… They left between the dust and fire, and all that remains are their echoes in my memory. Our home — the one we grew up in — is now nothing but a pile of stones. Every corner that once held laughter now holds sorrow. The war may be over, but now we face another kind of battle — the battle of living after loss. We’re trying to start again… to rebuild a home, to find a little peace in a life that feels shattered. I dream of planting a flower where our house once stood — to remind us that beauty never truly dies, even after all this pain.

And despite everything, I still believe that kindness exists — that there are hearts out there willing to reach out and say, “You are not alone.” If this message touches your heart, 🌿 Please help us rebuild our lives, and bring hope back to what’s left of our dreams.