Save artist Ayah Abu Alroos family from genocide
Hello everybody,
My name is Doaa Qeshta, from Gaza, Palestine. I currently live in France. I have created this campaign to support my friend Ayah Abu Alroos and her family during this extremely difficult time.
This is message from Ayah:
Hello, my name is Aya, I am 34 years old (born on 28/10/1990). I am a visual artist and a homemaker, passionate about art and everything related to it. I have created many paintings and previously participated in art exhibitions in Gaza. I am also a mother of four children:
Sufian Mohammed Al-Khatib (14/02/2010)
Nabila Mohammed Al-Khatib (16/01/2012)
Kinan Mohammed Al-Khatib (18/08/2018)
Aya Mohammed Al-Khatib (08/04/2020)
My husband, Dr. Mohammed Al-Khatib, is 41 years old (born on 31/10/1983). He holds a degree in Dentistry from October 6 University in Cairo, Egypt. He used to work at Fatima Al-Zahraa Charity Clinic in Rafah and also ran his own private dental clinic, which was our family’s only source of income.
Before October 7, we lived in central Rafah, enjoying a good and stable life. We owned a building where we lived and rented out shops, while my husband’s clinic provided for us. We even saved money to buy a piece of land where we planted olives, oranges, clementines, guavas, and lemons. We built a small home there as a quiet retreat away from the city noise, spending beautiful Thursdays together as a family.
But on October 7, war erupted — a terrifying day that felt like the end of the world. That day, we lost the most precious people in our lives. My father was killed in a horrific massacre, followed by my aunt, her husband, their children, my cousin and her husband with their children, another cousin, and then my uncle’s son and his wife.
We lost almost our entire family. Our holidays turned into funerals, and our joy became unbearable grief.
We were forced to leave our beloved home, land, and my husband’s clinic. Everything we built over years of hard work was gone. We were displaced to Mawasi Khan Younis, then again to Rafah, where our suffering only deepened.
On May 10, 2024, we moved into a tent for the first time. We received no help from international organizations or the government. We had to buy a Qatari tent for $500 and wood for $300 just to shelter ourselves. My husband lost his clinic, I lost my art tools, and I could no longer paint.
Then came winter — a disaster. Rainwater flooded our tent, destroying our clothes and belongings. My children screamed in fear, and we cried helplessly. My son Sufian lost his phone, which he used for school. My daughter Nabila, who has a hearing disability (nerve damage in both ears), lost one of her hearing aids. She now depends on only one, which needs batteries that are no longer available in Gaza. This has caused her psychological distress: she cries often, feels incomplete, and has become aggressive. Yet she is a talented child — skilled in beadwork, embroidery, and drawing. All she needs is hope, support, and access to a new hearing aid and a smartphone so she can learn and connect with the world.
When the truce came, we rushed to see our land — only to find our small home and trees reduced to rubble. My husband insisted on staying there despite the destruction. We tried to rebuild, but when war erupted again, we were forced to flee once more.
This time, we didn’t even have a bathroom. Every morning, my children and I stood in line for a shared one. To this day, we have no private bathroom.
Then tragedy struck again — my husband, our only breadwinner, was diagnosed with Guillain-Barré Syndrome, which left his body paralyzed. At the same time, famine worsened. We had nothing — not even bread. My husband needed nutrition and treatment, but I was helpless.
I walked long distances searching for flour. Once, at a U.S. aid point, I found flour being sold for 100 shekels per kilo! The despair crushed me. I divided the little bread we had among my children and husband. One night, my youngest daughter cried herself to sleep, begging for just one piece of bread, and I had nothing to give her except my tears.
We survived on lentils. Even firewood became rare and expensive. Everything around us turned dark and hopeless, as if survival itself was impossible.
Today, even though some aid has entered, prices remain unbearably high. We cannot afford basic needs. We desperately need a stable income to feed our children and live with dignity.
My husband urgently needs physical therapy to recover his nerves. My daughter Nabila needs a new hearing aid to hear like other children.
We live in a tent that protects us neither from the burning summer nor the freezing winter. Yet despite everything, we still love life, art, and learning.
My children love education, they love joy, and they love their homeland.
We are not asking for much. We just beg you to help us survive — to stay on our land, to live in peace, and to secure the basics: life, dignity, and education.
My children, like all children in the world, deserve to live.
Thank you 🙏
