Moonlight

My name is Saja. I’m a wife, a mother, and a woman who once believed her story would be simple. I thought my days would be filled with watching my daughter grow — from her first smile to her first steps — surrounded by the small joys of everyday life.

But life had other plans.

War has returned to our home. Again. And once again, we find ourselves living under skies that never seem to rest.

There was a moment — a fragile, breathless moment — when the bombs paused and the world seemed to remember us. It gave us hope. We thought maybe, just maybe, we could start to rebuild. But now, we are back in the dark — hiding, holding on, praying.

I’m writing this not as someone seeking pity, but as a mother who has no other choice but to speak.

Imagine holding your baby in the middle of the night, not because she cried, but because the world outside roared too loud for either of you to sleep. Imagine whispering bedtime stories not to lull her into dreams, but to keep the fear from settling into her tiny bones.

This is my life.

This is my daughter’s life.

And even now — especially now — I believe in softness. I believe in kindness. Because when everything else is taken from you, hope becomes the most valuable thing you have.

Why I’m Reaching Out Our home has been damaged. Our lives changed. But through it all, my daughter wakes up every morning with a smile. She reaches for me with trust, with love, with faith that I will keep her safe.

That’s why I keep going.

I’ve launched a campaign to ask for help — not because it’s easy, but because silence is no longer an option. I am asking for support not just for me, but for my baby, and for the quiet strength of so many mothers like me who are fighting, every single day, to hold their families together.

How You Can Help: 🤍 Help us restore parts of our home so we can live with dignity 🤍 Support women and mothers in Gaza with access to care and resources 🤍 Keep the light of hope alive for a generation born in the shadows of war

💛 If you can, please support our journey here:

If you can’t give, please consider sharing. Your voice might be the reason someone else hears ours.

From My Heart to Yours Maybe our lives are worlds apart. Maybe you’ve never lived through war. But if you’ve ever held a child and wished the world could be better for them — then you understand more than you know.

I don’t want my daughter to grow up thinking the world turned away.

Please, if you’ve read this far — thank you. Thank you for seeing us. Thank you for caring. We are still here. Still hoping. Still holding on to every kind act like it’s a lifeline.

I was there with my mother, my sister, and my three younger brothers.

When the missile hit, everything turned to smoke, blood, and silence.

My mother and sister were killed instantly.

My brothers and I were pulled from the rubble, injured — but alive.

Moments later, my father arrived at the hospital.

He didn’t know if any of us had survived. He ran through the halls, searching.

Al Jazeera Mubasher filmed that exact moment — the moment he found us.

This video isn’t easy to watch. But it’s the truth.

It’s the moment my father found his sons alive…

and learned that his wife and daughter were gone.

source:

https://www.instagram.com/share/_qqk5pMrz

I’m sharing this not to cause pain, but because I want people to understand what we’ve lived through.

This isn’t just a story. It’s our life.

It’s the moment that changed everything.

I’m still here. I’m trying to raise my brothers now.

We are trying to rebuild something from what was taken.

If you can help — even with a share — thank you

My name is Abdelmajid. I lost my mother and sister in this war. I'm a father to a little girl who was born during the bombing. She just turned one… and she’s growing up in hunger, fear, and rubble.

I’m not writing for sympathy. I’m writing because we are literally starving. No food. No medicine. No aid. No one helps us. I am alone, with my daughter and wife, trying to survive.

🍞 Gaza is starving – and so are we

There is no bread.

There is no baby milk.

We don’t even have clean water.

Every day, I fight just to find a bite to feed my baby.

My wife cries at night because our daughter sleeps hungry. I can’t look into her eyes anymore without feeling crushed.

💔 No aid. No job. No home. No hope.

No organization supports me. No income. No work. No fuel. No security. Only dust, fear, and hunger.

🤲🏻 Please Help Me Directly

I am asking for direct donations – not to any group or charity – Just to me, a father who wants to keep his baby alive.

🙏 Every dollar helps us stay alive

If you can’t donate – share this message. Don’t wait for a UN report. Don’t wait for TV to call it a “famine.” It’s already here.

From the ruins of Gaza, From the cries of my hungry daughter, I beg you for help. Not because I want – but because I have no other option.

All those what-ifs and what-nots made me forget how to live. All the broken dreams later, I forgot, I can rise up too.

And maybe I am the moon,

Filled with mountains and valleys, dust and dirt.

I am always somber, my replies always curt.

Opaque and dull, dead till the skull.

I initially hold no light . yet I always shun in the night.

I may come whole, but sometimes in pieces.

There’s a void in me, yet I’m covered in creases.

Being the moon is not always good

You look at me from afar, from the place you stood.

And maybe I am the moon, for I was always lonely,

Yet people looked at me with admiration only.

I filled their eyes with a spark,

When all around them was pitch dark.

You seek me out when nights are long,

When daylight fades and hope feels gone

And maybe I am the moon, for people found solace in me,

While I stood far, far away—the way nobody could reach me.

And maybe I am the moon,

For they look up when they’re lonely,

Not knowing I’m also covered in quiet melancholy.

Loved by all, yet never free.

A mirror in your time of ache

Alone, for everyone else’s sake.

And so,

Yucatan Spiny-tailed Iguana (Cachryx defensor), male, family Iguanidae, endemic to the northern Yucatan, Mexico