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“My little girl, when you asked me, ‘Why aren’t you with us, Daddy?’ it felt like my heart cracked open. The truth is, I haven’t been away from you for even a moment in my heart.

I live with half a soul since I’ve been away — the other half is with you… in your laughter, your little steps, in every moment you miss me.

Sometimes life pulls us apart, not because we want it, but because we’re trying to build something better — for those we love most. I’m not truly gone, my love. I’m only fighting through time and distance to give you a future full of safety, peace, and joy.

Every night, I look to the sky and whisper your name in my prayers. I picture you growing, smiling, becoming everything I’ve dreamed for you.

Forgive the distance, and know that my heart is always with you — always.”

Please support us to meet my daughters

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Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #595 )

Ayla is my firstborn, my little companion, my love. She’s five years old now — full of life, curious, and incredibly bright.

When I left Gaza in search of a better future for her, she was just three. I remember that day so clearly. She was asleep, like an angel. I couldn’t wake her. I kissed her gently, over and over, trying not to cry. I walked away with my suitcase in hand and tears in my eyes, carrying a heart full of hope and heartbreak.

I made it to Greece, secured legal documents, and applied to reunite with my family. But then, the war in Gaza erupted — and everything changed. Now I live split in half: my body is here, but my heart is still there, with them.

I tried to return to be with them, to share their fear and protect them, but every way back was closed.

Now, I’m trying to get them out of Gaza — to bring them to safety. But the costs are beyond what I can bear alone. That’s why I’ve started a fundraising campaign, to ask for your help in reuniting us.

If you can’t donate, please share my campaign. Every action counts.

“Look at her innocence… how beautiful and smart she is. This is my daughter Ayla.”

Ayla is my firstborn, my little companion, my love. She’s five years old now — full of life, curious, and incredibly bright.

When I left Gaza in search of a better future for her, she was just three. I remember that day so clearly. She was asleep, like an angel. I couldn’t wake her. I kissed her gently, over and over, trying not to cry. I walked away with my suitcase in hand and tears in my eyes, carrying a heart full of hope and heartbreak.

I made it to Greece, secured legal documents, and applied to reunite with my family. But then, the war in Gaza erupted — and everything changed. Now I live split in half: my body is here, but my heart is still there, with them.

I tried to return to be with them, to share their fear and protect them, but every way back was closed.

Now, I’m trying to get them out of Gaza — to bring them to safety. But the costs are beyond what I can bear alone. That’s why I’ve started a fundraising campaign, to ask for your help in reuniting us.

If you can’t donate, please share my campaign. Every action counts.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

“Imagine two little girls, carrying nothing but the innocence in their eyes, trapped under the weight of fear and war in Gaza.

These are my daughters… They know nothing of hatred, nothing of conflict – only the simple dreams of laughter, play, and a safe tomorrow.

Today, their only dream is to survive and reunite with me outside of Gaza.

Every bullet steals a hidden giggle, every missile buries a piece of their childhood.

Save the children. Preserve their innocence before it is crushed beneath the rubble.

To every heart that still beats with compassion – see them as your own daughters, and hear their cries as if they were your own.

Gaza is not just a headline. Gaza is a suffocating soul while the world watches in silence.

Please support my campaign to help bring them safely out of Gaza.”

If you can't donate, I will be grateful if you help publish my campaign.

I never dreamed of palaces, nor did I crave immense wealth. I only wanted a dignified life for my children, and honor for my wife who stood by me through every hardship. I wanted a warm home where the electricity wouldn’t cut off every night, and a dinner table where I didn’t have to apologize for the lack of bread.

When I decided to leave, it wasn’t an easy choice. I didn’t just leave behind a house — I left my whole heart there. I said goodbye to my wife at the door, her eyes filled with fear she couldn’t hide, and I said goodbye to my children who couldn’t yet understand what it means for a father to be gone for long.

I crossed the sea… not knowing whether it would carry me to a new life or to eternal absence. I faced danger, hunger, and loneliness. I slept on sidewalks more than once, the cold of exile gnawing at my bones — but I never wavered.

I worked in everything… construction, cleaning, dishwashing. Every bit of exhaustion was eased by a single thought: that my children might now be eating well, that my wife didn’t have to sell anything from the house, that our dignity remained untouched, even in my absence.

I used to think that being away was the hardest thing a man like me could endure. But I didn’t know what was coming would be even harsher.

Just as I began to build a stable life abroad, just as I started to gather what I could to send to my children, to promise them a new home to replace the humble one I left behind — the war broke out.

Gaza was on fire… and pain crept into my soul through every news flash, every dropped call, every image rising from under the rubble. It wasn’t just fear — it was paralysis… and I was far away.

We lost our home.

The work of my lifetime was burned away, and the roof that once sheltered us collapsed. All that remained of the place I promised them we’d return to was debris.

And we lost my wife’s father…

The man who held the family together with his presence was gone — taken suddenly in the silence of war. I couldn’t even say goodbye. I couldn’t hold my wife’s hand while she wept. I grieved twice — once for him, and once for my helplessness.

Then the crossings were closed.

The roads between me and my loved ones were severed. I could no longer send anything, nor properly check on them, nor even return… I became a prisoner of exile, and they of the siege. Neither of us could reach the other.

I swear I’ve never been more afraid than when the news stopped coming. I would sit in the dark, holding my phone like I was holding my own heart in my hands, begging to hear my wife’s voice, a small laugh from my children — any sign that said: “We are still here… and still okay.”

And through it all, I never lost faith in God, nor hope that the days will return — as they were, or as I dream them to be

Put yourself in my place as a father who has lived through two types of torments.. The first is the torment of emigrating to search for a decent life for his family, and the second is the torment of having my wife and daughters trapped in the Gaza Strip under bombardment, hunger, fear, and all kinds of genocide.

I’ve made the difficult decision to launch a fundraising campaign to help evacuate my family from Gaza as soon as possible. I simply cannot afford the high costs of getting them out on my own. This decision hasn’t been easy, but it comes from a deep sense of responsibility and immense love for my family, especially in light of the dire humanitarian conditions they are enduring.

I never dreamed of palaces, nor did I crave immense wealth. I only wanted a dignified life for my children, and honor for my wife who stood by me through every hardship. I wanted a warm home where the electricity wouldn’t cut off every night, and a dinner table where I didn’t have to apologize for the lack of bread.

When I decided to leave, it wasn’t an easy choice. I didn’t just leave behind a house — I left my whole heart there. I said goodbye to my wife at the door, her eyes filled with fear she couldn’t hide, and I said goodbye to my children who couldn’t yet understand what it means for a father to be gone for long.

I crossed the sea… not knowing whether it would carry me to a new life or to eternal absence. I faced danger, hunger, and loneliness. I slept on sidewalks more than once, the cold of exile gnawing at my bones — but I never wavered.

I worked in everything… construction, cleaning, dishwashing. Every bit of exhaustion was eased by a single thought: that my children might now be eating well, that my wife didn’t have to sell anything from the house, that our dignity remained untouched, even in my absence.

I used to think that being away was the hardest thing a man like me could endure. But I didn’t know what was coming would be even harsher.

Just as I began to build a stable life abroad, just as I started to gather what I could to send to my children, to promise them a new home to replace the humble one I left behind — the war broke out.

Gaza was on fire… and pain crept into my soul through every news flash, every dropped call, every image rising from under the rubble. It wasn’t just fear — it was paralysis… and I was far away.

We lost our home.

The work of my lifetime was burned away, and the roof that once sheltered us collapsed. All that remained of the place I promised them we’d return to was debris.

And we lost my wife’s father…

The man who held the family together with his presence was gone — taken suddenly in the silence of war. I couldn’t even say goodbye. I couldn’t hold my wife’s hand while she wept. I grieved twice — once for him, and once for my helplessness.

Then the crossings were closed.

The roads between me and my loved ones were severed. I could no longer send anything, nor properly check on them, nor even return… I became a prisoner of exile, and they of the siege. Neither of us could reach the other.

I swear I’ve never been more afraid than when the news stopped coming. I would sit in the dark, holding my phone like I was holding my own heart in my hands, begging to hear my wife’s voice, a small laugh from my children — any sign that said: “We are still here… and still okay.”

And through it all, I never lost faith in God, nor hope that the days will return — as they were, or as I dream them to be

Put yourself in my place as a father who has lived through two types of torments.. The first is the torment of emigrating to search for a decent life for his family, and the second is the torment of having my wife and daughters trapped in the Gaza Strip under bombardment, hunger, fear, and all kinds of genocide.

I’ve made the difficult decision to launch a fundraising campaign to help evacuate my family from Gaza as soon as possible. I simply cannot afford the high costs of getting them out on my own. This decision hasn’t been easy, but it comes from a deep sense of responsibility and immense love for my family, especially in light of the dire humanitarian conditions they are enduring.