Iridescent

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.

❤️‍🩹

instead ask:

is it SINCERE

was it CATHARTIC

was it FUN TO MAKE

is it MADE BY ME

𝙃𝙤𝙬 𝙙𝙞𝙙 𝙄 𝙚𝙣𝙙 𝙪𝙥 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚

𝙒𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙚𝙩𝙡𝙮 𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙢𝙮 𝙈𝙪𝙨𝙚?

𝙎𝙡𝙤𝙬, 𝙙𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣-

𝘼𝙨 𝙞𝙛 𝙪𝙣𝙫𝙚𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖 𝙨𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙣 𝙬𝙧𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙙 𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙨𝙘𝙪𝙡𝙥𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚,

𝙈𝙤𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙙𝙚𝙛𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙚𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙥𝙤𝙞𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙨𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙩𝙮,

𝙂𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙡𝙚 𝙫𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙮𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙣 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙨𝙥𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙢𝙤𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨,

𝘼𝙡𝙡 𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙖𝙯𝙚 - 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙄𝙣𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙣𝙤 𝙘𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜.

𝙈𝙮 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙬𝙖𝙞𝙩𝙚𝙙, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙣𝙫𝙖𝙨 𝙗𝙡𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝

𝙎𝙢𝙤𝙤𝙩𝙝 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙠𝙚𝙨 𝙢𝙚𝙧𝙜𝙚𝙙 𝙚𝙡𝙮𝙨𝙞𝙖𝙣 𝙚𝙙𝙜𝙚𝙨

𝙀𝙮𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨𝙘𝙖𝙥𝙚,

𝙃𝙤𝙤𝙙𝙚𝙙, 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙨𝙚 𝙮𝙚𝙩 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡,

𝘿𝙚𝙫𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙗𝙡𝙪𝙧𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙠𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙥𝙨𝙞𝙖,

𝙃𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙤𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙥𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙫𝙚𝙞𝙣𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙢𝙮 𝙥𝙖𝙥𝙚𝙧,

𝙎𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙬𝙖𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜- 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧 𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙤𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙤 𝙪𝙣𝙛𝙪𝙧𝙡.

Thank you @crystalbluelavender and everyone who got me to 10 reblogs!

  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