My name is Mohamed Abu Daher. I'm 34 years old and the eldest son of a family that gathered around the same table every Friday. Today, that table is broken, its chairs are empty, and the silence surrounding it tells a story the world refuses to hear. The war came without warning. My sister's home, her safe haven, was reduced to ashes in an instant. She was pregnant, her children were by her side, and they never returned. The pain doesn't subside; it spreads. Days later, my best friend lost his children in another explosion, and my little nephew became another name on a long
While I was looking for medicine for my diabetic father, the heavens opened again. The house next to me disappeared in a thunder of concrete and fire, and shrapnel shattered the bones in my left foot. Three fractures keep me awake every night, but the pain isn't the worst thing; the disability is. Gaza's hospitals are overwhelmed, supplies are running out, and the borders are closed. I watch my feet swell and darken because I can't afford the surgery, braces, and plane tickets that could save them. My father's insulin and heart medication cost $350 a week, money that no longer exists. Food prices have tripled; clean water consumption must be rationalized.
My family's needs cost approximately $200 per week, and our rent is approximately $750 per month.
I've sold everything I own except my hope, yet my family still sleeps hungry most nights.list that no document should ever contain.
I'm reaching out, not as a statistic, but as a brother, son, and future father who refuses to give up. I need help so my father can get treatment outside the Gaza Strip.