bella!!

But my pain is different… because I lost my mother and my sister in a single moment, in a single house — between walls that once echoed with laughter and warmth. There is no pain like searching through rubble for a voice you used to hear every morning. There is no heartbreak like reaching for a hand that once held yours, only to find emptiness. Today, the war may seem to be ending, but its scars remain. The occupation still strikes from time to time, and we are still trying to gather the pieces of our lives — to rebuild the house that became a memory, to take one more step toward normal life, to continue the path we started. I want to return to my studies… to lift my mother’s memory from the ruins and tell her, “I made it, Mom, just like I promised.” I want to plant a flower where our house once stood — a symbol that life is stronger than war, that we, the people of Gaza, never give up no matter how many times we are hit. We are not asking for pity. We are asking for a chance — a chance to live, to rebuild, to open the books that were closed under the ashes. Help us come back… help us continue what our mothers began before they left. Help us plant hope again in this land that thirsts for life. 🇵🇸❤️

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.

y'all are safe on my blog<3