Jay De L'Eau stan account

It’s hard to find words when life becomes a daily battle for the basics. I am writing to you from Gaza, where every day is a test of endurance. Between the scarcity of food, clean water, and the skyrocketing cost of living, we are struggling just to keep going.

I’m not just asking for help; I’m asking for a chance to breathe, to provide for my family, and to survive these harsh conditions. Any support—no matter how small—makes a world of difference to us right now. If you can’t donate, please reblog this post. Your voice helps our story reach those who can help.

FINN BENNETT as AERION TARGARYEN

I yield. I yield

19 Lives. One Heart. Zero Safety.

My name is Mohammed, and I am the guardian of a small universe that is slowly collapsing. When you see a "fundraiser," you see a number. When I see my family, I see:

My parents: Carrying 60 years of memories in a world that wants to erase them.

My late brother's children: Two orphans who look at me for the father they lost.

Shaimaa & her husband: Fighting two wars—one outside, and one inside his body (Synovial Sarcoma cancer).

My wife & children, Asma, Fatima, Omar: And their little ones who don’t understand why the sky is always screaming.

We are 19 souls trying to survive the impossible. Every reblog is a prayer heard. Every donation is a brick in the wall of our protection.

🔗 [Support our survival on GoFundMe here]

Children without basic necessities… without food… without safety.

All we have today is the hope in your hearts.

Your donation today could be a meal, or a decent life for a child who needs it most. 🤍

Vetted by #733

  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

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.