WittyAbed

My name is Abedmajed, and I live in Gaza with what remains of my once large and loving family.

In a single missile strike, we lost over 25 members of our family. They were not just names. They were mothers, daughters, sons, grandparents — people we shared meals with, laughed with, and built dreams with.

The missile hit our family home — the heart of everything we knew.

Among those killed were: 🕊️ My mother 🕊️ My sister 🕊️ My older brother His wife and their three daughters 🕊️ My uncle, his wife, and all their sons and grandchildren

We were left with nothing but rubble and grief. Yet somehow, my brother and I survived. And now, we carry the responsibility of rebuilding what was taken — not just for ourselves, but for our father, our surviving siblings, and the memory of those we lost.

💔 Why We’re Fundraising

This campaign is not just about survival. It’s about rebuilding a future — A family home, a shared life, a place where our father can rest safely, Where the next generation of our family can grow up knowing peace instead of trauma.

💬 The funds raised will help us:

🏗️ Rebuild our family home — which was completely destroyed 🛠️ Provide basic support for our father and siblings 🏡 Create safe, livable conditions for a family shattered by loss

🔒 How the Funds Are Managed

Due to the collapse of Gaza’s financial system, all donations are processed through my brother, who has a U.S. registered Stripe account. Funds are securely transferred to Gaza and distributed in cash here on the ground. We are transparent and ready to provide proof of every step.

🌱 Why Your Support Matters

We are not asking for charity. We’re asking for a chance to stand again, To rebuild something we can pass on to the children who survived.

Vetted By @gazavetters No:537

Your support gives us the strength not just to remember the ones we lost — but to honor them by continuing.

My name is Abdelmajed. I never imagined I’d be sharing my story like this, but life in Gaza has become unbearable. I am a survivor of the war here, and in the blink of an eye, everything I once knew—my home, my safety, my community—was ripped away from me.

The war has transformed Gaza into a graveyard of broken dreams. The buildings that once stood as symbols of life and resilience are now piles of rubble. Every corner is filled with the echoes of explosions. Every moment is shrouded in uncertainty. There is no security. There is no stability. There is no light at the end of the tunnel.

Basic needs have become luxuries. Food is scarce. Clean water is even scarcer. Hospitals are overwhelmed and under-resourced, and there is almost no medical care to be found. Every night, families go to bed hungry, praying they’ll wake up to see another day. The cost of basic necessities has skyrocketed, and it’s become a daily battle just to survive.

I’ve seen things I never thought possible—standing in long lines for a piece of bread, rationing every drop of water, and watching my people suffer in silence. I have lost everything—my home, my safety, my dignity.

Escape from Gaza is my only hope, but it’s almost impossible without financial help. The cost of evacuation is far beyond my means, and without support, I’m trapped in a warzone with no way out.

I’m reaching out to you now, in the hopes that someone, anyone, can help. I am not asking for luxury. I am asking for a chance—just a chance—to live. A chance to escape this never-ending cycle of fear, destruction, and loss. A chance to rebuild my life somewhere safe, where I can begin again, where I can find hope once more.

Any amount you can give will help me get closer to safety. Even the smallest donation will make a difference—it could be the lifeline I need to survive. If you are unable to donate, please share my story. The more people who hear it, the better the chance that I can find the support I desperately need.

Your kindness and support mean the world to me. You’re not just helping me escape a war; you’re giving me a chance to live, to rebuild, to breathe again.

Thank you for listening. Thank you for caring.