-SnootySnoots-

  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

  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

Click here to donate to Gaza, don't forget Gaza

The Nazi Israeli army began sweeping, destroying and bombing buildings on a very large scale, using weapons that we have never heard of before and that are very strange, as shown in the picture.

The Israeli incursion into the heart of Gaza City has forced countless families to flee south, leaving behind their homes, memories, and everything they hold dear. Imagine over 2 million people crammed into an area smaller than 40 kilometers, struggling to survive under constant bombardment. Streets that were once filled with life are now ruins; hospitals are overwhelmed, and basic necessities are scarce. Children are terrified, families are torn apart, and nowhere feels safe. This is not a battle it is collective punishment, a humanitarian nightmare unfolding in real time, and the world cannot turn away.

Map of Gaza City:

🔻 Blue: Fully controlled by Israeli forces

🔻 Red: Almost fully controlled by Israeli forces

🔻 Green: Currently under heavy fire, with many displaced people and civilians inside

🔻 Remaining areas: Where most of the remaining civilians are located

…….

Help Anas family !!!! 🇵🇸

Please help us, the Anas family, we lost everything because of the devastating war against us. Read our story and don’t forget to donate to us, because every dollar is important to us. You think it is useless, but the opposite is true, it is very important to us

Donation link : 🙏👇

happy bday to the man (other version below)

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.

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.

Today I am almost sixteen, after living through two years that felt like a hundred filled with pain, displacement, and loss.

Two years of war that devoured our dreams and childhood, stealing our sense of safety, our education, our very lives.

I used to be a top student, full of big hopes for my future.

But I’ve lost two whole years of learning, two years of my life, my future, my self.

This cursed war destroyed everything around us.

It changed our faces and left our bodies frail from hunger and deprivation.

It denied us food and water, medicine and rest, everything that makes life bearable.

It erased all our beautiful memories, stole our laughter and peace, and left us wearing the faces of survivors.

My family and I have lived between bombings and ruins, hunger and fear.

We moved from place to place searching for shelter, sometimes sleeping under the open sky,

sometimes in places unfit for life, between the freezing cold and the burning sun.

I’ve seen the fear in my sister’s and brother’s eyes, and in the faces of the few friends who remain.

I’ve seen my father, sick and jobless, helpless to provide us with food.

And I’ve seen my mother try to stay strong while everything around us collapses.

Two years of impossible survival. Two years of waiting for a ceasefire that never came.

And today, after the announcement of a new ceasefire agreement, we feel both hope and fear.

We pray that this time it will hold, that this time it will be real.

Hope that this nightmare will finally end, and fear that we will be let down once again,

as we have every time peace seemed near and this cursed war continued.

Please, don’t leave us alone.

Help us. Share our voices. Support us in any way you can.

Gaza today is not a place for the living. It’s a witness to the world’s silence.

My name is Ahmad, from Gaza.

I once dreamed of becoming something great.

But now I only dream of a day without bombing, and a morning that feels like the ones we used to know before the war.

📌 Fundraiser vetted (#167 by el-shab-hussein & nabulsi)

📌 Main Tumblr: @ahmadwaleed55