Help us survive the genocide in Gaza
I am a young man from Gaza, only 22 years old, trying to make a life for myself in a world filled with hardship. Before the war, I worked long hours, doing whatever I could to earn a modest living. Life was always difficult, but we managed. Yet, the constant violence, the unending siege, and the horrors of war were always present, casting shadows over our lives. Then, the war came upon us-sudden and brutal. We had no way of knowing when it would end or how we would survive. In the first days of the conflict, we were forced to flee from our home in Beit Hanoun, my beloved city, as the bombings grew more intense. The bombs fell mercilessly, targeting homes and families, and we had no choice but to leave everything behind.
We sought shelter in a school in the Jabalia camp, which the enemy claimed was a "safe zone." But there, too, we were not spared. The school was bombed, and many lives were lost, including relatives and loved ones. The pain of that day is indescribable.
We were then displaced again, this time to the south of Gaza, to an area called Deir Al-Balah. But even here, we found no refuge. There were too many of us, and no one was there to offer support. We were forced to move once more, this time to Al-Wusta, in a place called Al-Maghazi, where we stayed for almost two months.
Then, on the morning of December 26, 2023, our world was shattered once again. At 5:30 AM, the school we were staying in was bombed. The explosion tore through our lives, and we were left with nothing but fear. People were injured, and the ground was soaked with blood. We were forced to flee once again, this time leaving behind all our food and belongings.
By the grace of God, we managed to escape with injuries, but many of my family members were hurt. We found ourselves homeless again, unsure of where to go. We ended up in Rafah, but even here, there was no shelter. We slept on the ground, under a makeshift tent made of wood and scraps. The insects crawled on us as we tried to rest. The rain came, flooding our tents. We had nothing, no clothes, no money, just the clothes on our backs and the fear in our hearts.
Winter passed, and summer arrived, but we were still living in tents, suffocating from the heat, feeling as if we were trapped in a boiling pot. Every day in Rafah became more unbearable, with no food, no money, and no hope. The prices kept rising, and humanitarian aid was blocked. Then the enemy's forces entered Rafah, bombing homes and tents, killing more innocent people. It felt as though there was no place left to run.
We moved again, to an area called Mawasi Khan Yunis, which the enemy claimed was "safe." But even there, every day was a struggle. The wind tore at our tents, the heat was unbearable, and we had no water. I walked over a kilometer each day, carrying gallons of water, standing for hours in the scorching sun, just to keep us alive.
The pain of this war, the loss of everything we had, the suffering of our people, and the silence of the world have been overwhelming. We feel abandoned by those who should have helped us, by our brothers and sisters in other Muslim countries, who have turned a blind eye to our suffering. But despite everything, we are still here, still alive, still hoping.
I write this message in the hope that it reaches someone, anyone, who can offer even a small amount of help. We are in desperate need of support. Even the smallest act of kindness would mean everything to us in these dark days. Your help, no matter how little, will bring relief and will be a blessing in the eyes of God. Thank you for reading, and thank you for caring.
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