Back then I kept trying to reach him, but with so many people speaking and the host juggling requests, we couldn’t find him again. I left that space feeling like I had failed him. And now, two years later, he’s back in my life. I don’t believe that’s random. I believe it’s because I can help him now in a way I couldn’t then.

Donate to Obaida

Since that first space, I found this Substack community. And the truth is, the help we can give him today is so much more than anything I could have done back then. But only if people see his story. Only if people share it. Sharing is what gets eyes on these campaigns. Sharing is what keeps Palestinian families alive.

His campaign has been open for more than three months and has only received £92. He is sixteen years old, trying to feed his family. If we can shoulder even a fraction of that burden, we should. We can help them get clean water and food. Food is the main issue. Israel’s tight and deliberate chokehold on what enters Gaza, especially food, is something we all know. It is starvation as policy.

He is sixteen. His family of eight has lost all stability and safety because of the genocide. They are living in a makeshift tent made of cloth scraps and worn out blankets. It doesn’t protect them from the cold, the rain, or the heat. His father is 38. His mother is 33. His eldest sister is 17. Then him at 16. His brothers are 14 and 12. His sister is 9. And the youngest is a baby, a year and a half old. Eight people trying to survive inside a tent that barely counts as shelter.

This is what he wakes up to every day. This is what he carries on his back at sixteen.

Donate to Obaida

And here’s the part that breaks me every time. Obaida’s story isn’t about some extra tragedy. As if Palestinians need an additional layer of devastation, a murdered family member, a lost limb, a bombing, just to be seen. Survival alone should be enough. The fact that he is trying to get food and clean water should be enough. But Palestinians are forced into a world where even their suffering has to compete for attention.

We all have a responsibility here. I’m not trying to guilt you. I’m not trying to manipulate anyone. But the truth is we all have a hand in what Gaza is right now, willingly or unwillingly. And the bare minimum we can do in this nightmare is simple. When a Palestinian campaign crosses our feed, we either donate if we can, or we share it.

In Obaida’s case, I can’t explain how much this means to me. I’m begging you, if you’re able, help this kid. He is a child. A child trying to feed his siblings. A child trying to keep his family alive. It’s devastating. No child should have this burden. No child in this world. But here we are.

So please. If you can donate, donate. If you can’t, then share it. That’s all I’m asking. The more eyes on this, the more chances Obaida and his family have.

Donate to Obaida

We all say we stand with Gaza. This is what that looks like. Helping. Speaking up. Sharing. Making sure families like his aren’t forgotten.

If you can help this kid, help him. He’s sixteen. Just sixteen.

📎https://chuffed.org/project/obaidadami

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This is the story of 12-year-old Mays, a girl who has already survived more than most adults ever will.

Months ago, she was struck by a U.S. aid drop. The impact shattered her leg and left her needing metal plates to walk. Now she is back in the hospital because she ate contaminated food. She is feverish, weak, and fighting off poisoning in a place where medical care is scarce and expensive.

Her mother, Zikrayat, is battling brain cancer. She is 30 years old and trying to keep four children alive while living in a torn tent after being displaced more than ten times. Their tent cannot keep out heat, cold, rodents or insects. Their meals are inconsistent. Their children are malnourished.

Donate to Zikrayat's Family

Their campaign has been running for almost a year and has reached £1,999. They have received some help, but nowhere near enough to meet their basic needs or cover emergencies like this one. They are still living on the edge of survival.

And now this new crisis has pushed them even closer to danger.

“I am living with brain cancer. My daughter can barely walk after being injured by an aid drop. We live in a torn tent. We have nothing left.”

These are Zikrayat’s own words. From the beginning, she has said that her biggest fear is food. Finding it. Keeping it safe. Making sure her children do not starve.

But in Gaza, even food can kill you.

Israel’s genocide has destroyed every system that keeps people alive. Homes, hospitals, water, sanitation, food supply. A family I highlighted previously faced poisoning through their medication. Now here we are again. Another child poisoned. Another family pushed past the limit of what any human being should endure.

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This is why I am writing this article.

Because nothing else has worked. Because this family cannot wait. Because a 12-year-old girl is lying in a hospital bed after being injured twice by hunger. First by an aid drop. Now by contaminated food.

Because her siblings are at risk if we do not act.

What this family needs right now is simple.

They need help covering Mays’s hospital bill.

They need safe food so the children do not get poisoned again.

Everything else matters, but food is the difference between life and death for them. Food is what keeps the other children from ending up in the same hospital bed. Food is what keeps this mother alive long enough to continue her cancer treatment. Food is what keeps this family from collapsing under the weight of starvation and illness.

This is not a long-term plan. This is an emergency.

Please donate if you can. Please share if you cannot.

Every share matters. Every dollar matters. This family has been trying to survive for almost a year with limited support. They need more help than they have received.

Help give Mays a chance to heal. Help give her mother one moment of relief. Help keep her siblings safe.

Donate to Zikrayat's Family

Donate here: https://chuffed.org/project/zikrayat

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Alaa was buried under the rubble. Metal beams and concrete crushed his face. His tongue was sliced open and later stitched. He lost several teeth and every single molar. He was pulled out alive and taken to Al Shifa Hospital, but the injuries to his mouth were catastrophic.

He has lived with the consequences ever since.

Donate to Alaa's Relief

Three years of unrelenting pain

Alaa says the pain is constant. He cannot sleep. He cannot chew. He cannot digest food properly. The damage is visible in the video he sent. His teeth are shattered, his molars are gone, and his jaw alignment is destroyed.

He has been living like this not for days, not for months, but for three years.

“Honestly, I’m dying a million deaths a day from the pain.”

A dentist examined him recently and confirmed what Alaa already knew. His mouth cannot heal on its own. He needs bridges and implants. He needs reconstruction. He needs relief.

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The numbers are impossible for someone trapped in Gaza

The dentist gave him two figures.

• $2000 to repair only the most urgent teeth and place a few implants. This would be enough to stop the pain and allow him to eat.

• Around $5550 for full reconstruction, including all teeth, molars, and braces. This is the amount required to restore normal function and dignity.

Alaa is not asking for the full amount. He is asking for the minimum. Two thousand dollars to stop the pain that has ruled his life for three years.

But in Gaza, in a tent, under siege, with no income, no functioning economy, and no way out, two thousand dollars is unreachable.

Everyone knows tooth pain. Now imagine losing your entire mouth

Every one of us has had a toothache at least once. A cavity. A gum infection. Food stuck between teeth. A cracked filling. We know how a single tooth can bring us to our knees.

Now imagine every molar gone.

Imagine your tongue cut and stitched.

Imagine your face crushed.

Imagine your teeth shattered.

Imagine living with that pain every day for three years.

This is what Alaa has been enduring since the bombing.

A call to this community

I am turning to this community because it is made up of people from every background and every walk of life. People who care. People who show up. People who understand what it means to respond when someone is suffering. This appeal is for all of you, because every single person here has the power to help.

We have all watched this genocide unfold. We have watched Gaza be destroyed in real time. Whether we wanted it or not, whether we consented or not, our governments funded it. Our tax dollars funded it. That means we carry a responsibility, moral and human, to help the survivors who reach our doorstep.

Alaa is one of them.

Donate to Alaa's Relief

What we are trying to raise

• Minimum goal: $2000 to stop the pain

• Ideal goal: $5550 to give him back basic normalcy, the ability to chew, speak, and live without agony

This is the largest amount I have ever asked this community to come together for. But I also know what this community is capable of.

Manufacturing Dissent have almost 14,000 subscribers and 17,000 followers. If only a small percentage of our subscribers/followers donated the minimum amount, we could get Alaa the help he needs and deserves.

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Please share widely

If you cannot donate, you can still help.

Share this with your friends.

Share it with your family.

Share it with your community centers, mosques, churches, and workplaces.

Share it with anyone who understands what it means to be human in a moment like this.

Alaa has survived the bombs. He has survived the rubble. He has survived the loss of his home and the destruction of his life.

He should not have to survive this pain alone.

Donate to Alaa's Relief

📎https://chuffed.org/project/171331-alaa-and-his-two-little-ones-seek-hope

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This piece is part of ’s ongoing work from inside Gaza, where he writes the truth of what he sees and loses. It is not commentary from a distance. It is a young writer documenting the violence that keeps taking the people around him.

In this story, he writes about his childhood friend Yousef, a boy he grew up with, played with, and survived siege after siege beside. We share these stories because we hope they help humanize Palestinians, who are too often reduced to headlines or statistics. These are real people with real lives, real pain, and real suffering, and their stories deserve to be seen as such.

– –

If you want to support young Abood, donate to help him and his family survive this genocide:

Donate to Abood

Another way to support Abood is by becoming a free or paid subscriber to help sustain his work:

Subscribe to Abood

Yousef was not just a passing friend in the neighborhood…

He was a piece of our shared childhood, a voice from yesterday’s laughter, a face that looked like us in every way… in dreams, in exhaustion, and in that constant attempt to appear stronger than we really were.

He lived next to our house, exactly my age… we grew up together, running after a small ball as if it contained the whole world. Yousef played football with rare passion, as if his feet knew the path to his dream better than he did. He wasn’t just a good player… he carried big ambitions, a living heart, and a spirit that refused to surrender.

He was an ordinary young man…

Or at least, that’s how it should have been.

But in Gaza, nothing remains ordinary.

Yousef, like me, had a family…

A family that waited, hoped, and went hungry.

He lived everything we lived: bombing, fear, a brief ceasefire that felt like an illusion, and then a harsher return of siege and hunger. In the final famine, when hunger became more brutal than fear, Yousef could no longer bear to watch his family suffer in silence.

He did not go in search of heroism…

He went in search of a bag of flour.

He knew—yes, he knew well—that the road to aid was not a road to survival, but a path from which one might never return.

He knew he might come back carried on shoulders…

Or not return at all.

And yet, he went.

He went carrying the weight of his family’s pain, and the unbearable burden of helplessness.

At the Zikim area, Yousef was not alone…

There were dozens of young men, all just like him, all walking toward death with only one purpose: to feed those they loved.

They approached the trucks as if they carried life itself…

But in Gaza, life often arrives wrapped in death.

The gunfire began.

Some fell, and Yousef survived… for a moment.

Then came the strike no soul escapes:

A shell… tearing the place apart, swallowing dreams in an instant.

Most of those there were killed.

As for Yousef…

He was struck by shrapnel in his neck and abdomen.

He fell—not carrying a bag of flour, but carrying his final wounds.

His younger brother was beside him…

Calling out with a voice trembling between hope and collapse:

“Don’t leave me… don’t die… stay awake… I’m here… I’ll get you to the hospital…”

But what can a child’s voice do against bleeding death?

His brother cried… not only from grief,

but from that helplessness that slowly kills a person from within.

They carried Yousef to the hospital…

But he had already gone ahead of them.

He was martyred before he arrived.

The news struck his family like lightning…

They had not just lost a son,

but the pillar of their home, the one who carried the weight of their days.

They loved him…

As if love, in this land, has become another path to loss.

This is life in Gaza…

Where young men do not grow old,

because their lives are taken before they can unfold.

Yousef did not grow older…

But he left greater than a dream, heavier than a story.

He left…

while simply trying to feed his family.💔💔😞😞

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This is the fourth installment from our young writer in Gaza, . This story is the hardest one for him to share because it carries someone he loved like a brother. He wanted to write it from the start, but going back to those memories was more than he could handle.

Mahmoud was seventeen, on the cusp of turning eighteen, when Israel killed him in November 2023. Writing this piece came with a deep emotional cost for Abood, and every line reflects the weight of that loss. It is the most personal story he has shared.

– –

If you want to support young Abood, donate to help him and his family survive this genocide:

Donate to Abood

Another way to support Abood is by becoming a free or paid subscriber to help sustain his work:

Subscribe to Abood

Mahmoud was not just a friend…

He was far more than that… he was my brother—the one my mother did not give birth to, yet who was born in my heart since childhood.

I grew up with him, side by side,

in the same streets that memorized our footsteps,

in the same school that witnessed our laughter,

in the same classroom that held our simple dreams.

We lived childhood the way it was meant to be lived…

running after a small ball,

believing the world did not go beyond the edges of the field.

And Mahmoud was always the best…

not only because he was the most skilled at football,

but because he had the purest heart and the most honest soul.

He wished good for everyone…

smiled without reason,

helped without expecting anything in return,

calm… peaceful…

and strong in a way that could not be measured by muscles, but by character.

Then the war came…

a war that did not come only to steal our homes…

but to take away peace, faces, and memories.

Mahmoud stayed in northern Gaza,

standing firm with his family,

facing fear in silence,

hiding his pain behind a few words.

As for me… I had reached the south,

to a school in Khan Younis,

carrying a restless anxiety,

waiting for his voice as a drowning man waits for a breath of air.

We stayed in constant contact,

I checked on him… and he checked on me,

as if we were trying to convince ourselves that everything was still okay.

One day, I called him and asked about our house…

he said in a tired voice:

“I don’t know… I’ll go and see if it was hit.”

That moment was heavy…

as if time had stopped,

as if my heart was trapped between prayer and fear.

Then his voice returned…

“Your house is safe… thank God… only the windows are shattered.”

I breathed in relief…

feeling as if life had returned a small piece of safety to me,

but I did not know…

that it would be the last time I would ever feel saved.

The next day…

I heard the news that tore apart what remained of me:

“A school in northern Gaza has been bombed…”

It was not just news…

it was a warning…

a heavy shadow creeping toward me.

Then I learned the truth…

that school…

was the shelter where Mahmoud and his family were staying.

In that moment…

there was no sound…

no air…

everything froze.

I grabbed my phone with trembling hands,

and called him…

once… twice… ten times…

No answer.

His phone was off.

That silence…

was not ordinary silence,

it was the silence of graves…

a silence that carried the end within it.

I clung to any hope…

any possibility… any miracle…

that he would survive… that someone would… that I would hear his voice again.

But the truth…

was harsher than anything the mind can bear.

Mahmoud… did not survive.

Neither did his family.

Mahmoud was gone…

and with him, his father and mother,

his brothers: Mustafa, Mohammad, Omar,

and little Sami…

They were gone all at once…

as if they had never been here,

as if their laughter had never filled the place,

as if life had never passed through there at all.

I couldn’t say goodbye…

I couldn’t see him one last time…

the road to the north was surrounded by death,

anyone who tried to return was targeted…

even farewell had become a crime.

And since that day…

every night, Mahmoud comes back…

not in body… but in memory.

He comes as a voice inside me,

as an image walking in the dark,

as a laugh that is born… then suddenly killed.

I see him running after the ball…

then falling…

I reach out my hand to him… and find nothing but emptiness.

And I cry.

I cry because the world has grown used to seeing them as numbers,

a number mentioned in the news,

or written in a report… then forgotten.

But they were never numbers.

They were human beings…

with names, with faces, with beating hearts,

with dreams waiting to be realized,

with days that deserved to be lived.

Mahmoud… was not a number.

He was a whole life…

extinguished in a single moment.

And since then…

war is no longer just something I hear about…

it has become Mahmoud’s face…

when he disappeared…

and never came back.

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is a young writer in Gaza who has been living through displacement and hardship. He writes from the middle of it, using his words to make sense of what he and his family are facing.

This piece is one of his reflections. It shows his strength, his honesty, and the hope he holds onto even in the hardest moments.

These are his words and his experience.

– –

If you want to support young Abood, donate to help him and his family survive this genocide:

Donate to Abood

Another way to support Abood is by becoming a free or paid subscriber to help sustain his work:

Subscribe to Abood

We were not leaving… we were being uprooted.

From Rafah, we fled under forced evacuation orders, carrying nothing but fear and what remained of our souls. The bombing was not far—it followed us like a heavy shadow. The sky was no longer a sky… it had become an open mouth swallowing everything. We walked without knowing whether we were surviving, or merely postponing death.

We arrived in Khan Younis… but we did not find it as it once was. It was no longer a city, but the remains of a memory. A barren land, as if life itself had left without saying goodbye. No trees to shelter us, no water to quench our thirst—only harsh soil and a burning, merciless sun.

We set up our tent on land that resembled nothing but a desert. It was rough and unforgiving, as if refusing to be embraced again. We were trying to begin from nothing, while everything inside us was already broken.

That day… the heat was unbearable. The sun stood directly above us, as if watching and testing our endurance. My brother and I were trying to secure the tent pole. I was digging slowly, with no energy left—my body exhausted, my breathing uneven. Sweat wasn’t just falling… it was escaping me, the way strength escapes a body worn down by too many days.

I was thirsty… unbearably thirsty. The kind of thirst that does not just ask for water—it asks for survival.

I climbed down into the hole, raised the axe, and struck the ground one last time… not out of hope, but as a final attempt before surrender.

And then…

Something I never imagined happened.

Water came out.

Clean, cold, living water.

I froze in place, unable to comprehend what I was seeing. It was as if the earth, after all its cruelty, had suddenly decided to apologize. As if God had sent us a message in the middle of this devastation… that we had not been forgotten.

I shouted—not from pain, but from joy. I called my family, then our neighbors. They ran toward me as if I were bringing news of a ceasefire, not just water. But in that moment… water was greater than any peace.

It was everything.

We laughed, we cried, and I could not understand how a few drops of water could bring life back to hearts that were on the verge of fading.

Later, we discovered that I had struck an old water pipe buried beneath the ground… but that changed nothing for me.

To me… it was no coincidence.

How could a tired hand, with no strength left, choose that exact spot? How could one final, desperate strike become the beginning of life?

It was wisdom.

It was mercy.

It was a miracle… even if the world explains it differently.

And from that moment on, I never stopped smiling.

Because I understood one thing…

That God, even in our darkest moments, hides beneath our feet what can bring us back to life.

We just… have to keep digging.

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This is the third installment from our young writer in Gaza, . It is another story of hope, of resilience, and of a mother’s love. It arrives on a weekend when the meaning of Easter and resurrection feels painfully fitting.

Through these stories, we bring Gaza alive. We bring Palestinians alive. We bring their humanity back into clear view. Through Abood’s words, one can feel every emotion, every fear, every small joy, and every moment of pain.

– -

If you want to support young Abood, donate to help him and his family survive this genocide:

Donate to Abood

Another way to support Abood is by becoming a free or paid subscriber to help sustain his work:

Subscribe to Abood

On that night…

silence was not peace… it was an open grave,

and the faint breaths beneath the rubble… were screaming without a sound.

It was not the only miracle…

but it was one of the most terrifying moments at the beginning of the war.

In the early days of the incursion,

as the occupation entered Gaza under relentless, heavy bombardment,

the sky rained fire,

and homes collapsed over their families without warning…

as if the earth itself was swallowing its children alive.

That night…

a house was struck, collapsing on everyone inside.

Ambulances arrived,

trying to save whoever they could,

under merciless shelling,

and under a darkness so heavy… it felt like the end of the world.

They began pulling the family from beneath the rubble,

with suffocating difficulty,

and after long suffering…

they managed to rescue them.

But… not all of them.

There was a young man…

nineteen years old,

the eldest son…

whose voice no one heard,

whose body no one could find.

They searched among the cold stones,

called his name through the dust,

dug… and then stopped.

They couldn’t find him.

The silence was terrifying,

as if the rubble hid a dark secret…

or a body that would never return.

The ambulances left…

carrying the survivors,

leaving behind a question that haunted everyone:

Was he dead… or could he still hear them?

When the family regained consciousness,

their first trembling question was:

Where is our son?

They were told:

We didn’t find him…

he may still be under the rubble.

The mother collapsed.

She cried until her voice broke,

feeling as though her heart had been buried with him… beneath the stones.

But that night…

it wasn’t over.

She saw him.

In a dream that felt like a message from another world,

his voice was weak… afraid:

“I’m here, mother… I’m alive.”

She woke up trembling,

her heart pounding as if trying to escape her chest,

certain that her son… was still waiting for her in the darkness.

She rushed to ask for help,

but reality was colder than her hope…

no one responded.

She returned broken,

haunted by a terrifying thought:

What if he is alive… and dying slowly?

She slept again…

and the dream returned like a nightmare she couldn’t escape.

This time…

his voice was crying out:

“Don’t leave me, mother… I’m under the room… I’m here…”

She woke up screaming,

as if she had risen from a grave.

She ran to her destroyed home,

fear filling her eyes,

faith guiding her trembling steps.

She shouted:

“My son is here! He’s alive! Under this room!”

No one doubted her…

perhaps because fear was stronger than doubt.

They began to dig,

with their bare hands,

pulling through death itself…

searching for life.

Time was merciless,

and the silence… grew more terrifying.

An hour…

then another…

two and a half hours of slow horror.

Then…

a hand appeared.

Cold… covered in dust… but moving.

He was lying there,

his body barely alive,

but his fingers… were resisting death.

He was alive.

After 72 hours under the rubble,

in a darkness like a grave,

without food… without water… without a voice…

he was still holding on to life.

It was not just a miracle…

it was a mother’s cry breaking through death.

In a place that swallows the living,

and carries the scent of endings…

a mother remains the only one

who hears what cannot be heard,

and sees what cannot be seen.

A mother…

is the only thing

death cannot defeat.

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Mohamed was killed at one of the “Christian” GHF aid centers. He went there because his children were dying from starvation. Everyone in Gaza knows the danger of approaching aid points. People have been shot just for trying to reach food. He had no choice. On July 23, 2025, he went to try to bring back one bag of flour. He was killed.

A man died because he wanted to feed his family. That is the truth of this story.

Now all of that responsibility sits on Sejood’s shoulders. She never had the chance to grieve her husband. No one in Gaza gets that time. Survival doesn’t pause for grief. Every hour is about keeping her children alive, finding food, finding medicine, finding clean water, and trying to protect them inside a home that no longer exists.

Her four‑year‑old son, Yamen, has a serious leg condition and wears heavy metal braces. She carries him everywhere because they cannot afford a wheelchair. The cost for that wheelchair is $1k, an impossible amount in a place where a bag of flour is $30. Her baby, Sanad, is one year old and needs regular medication. Both children have perforated eardrums from explosions landing too close to them. They are sick often. Food is never guaranteed.

DONATE TO SEJOOD NOW

Sejood is a very humble person. She never asks for the sake of asking. She doesn’t use her grief to manipulate and get donations. She only requests when she has no choice and no where to turn.

What she urgently needs right now:

• A wheelchair for Yamen so she no longer has to carry him on her back

• Basic food and a few days of breathing room

• Medication and diapers for the baby

I am hoping that through this community, we can raise at least $1500 for her. One thousand will go toward the wheelchair. The remaining $500 will give her a small window of relief to buy food and medicine for her children.

The GHF centers were American‑funded. Whether we wanted it or not, every American was made complicit in the conditions that forced Mohamed to risk his life for food. The least we can do is shoulder a piece of the suffering that families like Sejood’s are carrying alone.

If you cannot donate, please share her story. Share it with your friends, your community, your church, your mosque, your workplace. Share it outside of Substack. Every share helps. Every conversation helps. Every dollar helps.

I am hoping this community can come together and help this mother who lost her husband simply because he tried to feed his family. I hope we can raise enough for at least a wheelchair and a few meals for Sejood and her babies. I hope we can act now.

DONATE TO SEJOOD NOW

You can contact Sejood directly through her Twitter account: Sejood165Sejood

This is the second installment from , a young writer from Gaza who has been sharing stories that move between the spiritual world and the reality he lives in every day. This one leans toward the miraculous. It’s a story that people across Gaza know well, and Abood’s cousin Mahmoud was one of the ambulance crew who witnessed it happen.

We hope these stories help humanize Palestinians for the world. We hope they help people feel their pain, their fear, their grief, their joy, and the moments that keep them going. With Easter here, a weekend centered on resurrection and hope, it feels like the right time to share a story like this. A story that reminds us that even in a place surrounded by loss, people still speak about miracles.

– –

If you want to support young Abood, donate to help him and his family survive this genocide:

Donate to Abood

Another way to support Abood is by becoming a free or paid subscriber to help sustain his work:

Subscribe to Abood

After this story… do not say that miracles are impossible

In Gaza, where people have grown used to the sound of bombardment the way others grow used to rain,

something happened… something that cannot be explained—

or perhaps something people refuse to believe.

On that day,

the bombing was more intense than usual,

the sky was hidden behind thick smoke,

and the sounds of screams and explosions blended without pause.

A missile struck a multi-story building,

splitting it into two halves…

one half collapsed,

the other burned.

The fire devoured everything—

walls, doors, memories…

even the air itself became suffocating.

Those who could flee, fled.

Those who couldn’t… remained.

Ambulance crews and firefighters arrived,

trying to determine if anyone was still alive inside that inferno.

But the fourth floor was completely engulfed in flames…

and it seemed nearly impossible for anyone to survive.

There was said to be a family…

a father and five children.

But the fire was stronger than hope,

and everyone believed they had turned to ash.

Then suddenly…

A woman emerged from the flames.

She was not running.

She was not screaming.

She walked calmly… strangely calm,

wearing a white cloak—

untouched, as if the fire had never reached her.

Everyone froze.

Paramedics, firefighters, even the survivors.

No one could believe what they were seeing.

She approached them, her voice steady despite everything:

“My children… they are alive… they are there… save them.”

She pointed toward the fourth floor—

the same floor they had declared lost.

The crews moved immediately.

There was no time for questions,

only rescue.

They entered the building,

risking their lives through fire and smoke,

climbing where life was no longer expected to exist.

And there…

they found the children.

Five children…

huddled in a narrow corner,

trembling,

waiting to suffocate… or to die.

But they were alive.

They were rescued quickly

and taken to the hospital.

Between life and death… they returned.

Hours later,

they opened their eyes.

Rescuers approached and asked them:

“Where is your mother?”

The children looked at each other,

confused in a way no one understood.

Then one of them said, in a trembling voice:

“Our mother… died two years ago.”

Silence filled the room.

A heavy silence…

as if the place itself had lost its voice.

The rescuers looked at one another,

and the image of that woman returned to their minds—

the white cloak…

the calm voice…

the words that saved five lives.

Who was she?

How did she walk through the fire?

And where did she go?

No one had answers.

But in Gaza…

where pain meets faith,

and where the impossible becomes possible—

they said only one thing:

This is not just a story…

This is a miracle.

If you want to support young Abood, donate to help him and his family survive this genocide:

Donate to Abood

Another way to support Abood is by becoming a free or paid subscriber to help sustain his work:

Subscribe to Abood

Manufacturing Dissent exists because of you. We are a fiercely independent citizen outlet, powered only by our readers and listeners—not corporations, not advertisers. Every story we tell, every truth we uncover, depends on your support. For less than the price of a coffee, you can become a member and help us grow stronger, louder, and more fearless. Right now, annual memberships are 30% off. Stand with us. Fuel citizen journalism. Be the reason dissent thrives.

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would like to introduce you to Abood. He’s our youngest writer, only 20 years old, and he’s from Gaza. We’ve asked him to write about his experiences. Our first request was for anything spiritual he has seen or felt there. With the violent deaths that happen, people often wonder about hauntings, about what’s left behind when someone is killed suddenly. These are his personal accounts. We hope they give you even a small sense of what people in Gaza have lived through and the suffering they carry.

If you can support Abood, please do. You can donate directly to him, like everyone in Gaza, he needs help, his family is going through a genocide.

Donate to Abood

You can also subscribe as a paid member to his Substack, which will help him and his family as they try to survive.

Subscribe to Abood

When the occupation bombed the Baptist hospital

“They didn’t die beneath the rubble… they stayed there, waiting for us, calling to us in the night… until we become one of them.”

That night… the darkness was not normal.

It was heavy… as if it carried within it voices that only those who have lived through pain can hear.

I approached Al-Maamadani Hospital… or what remained of it.

The air there was not air… it was a mixture of ash, blood, and memories that refused to die.

They told me:

“Don’t go at night… something moves there.”

But I went.

Because I was no longer afraid of death…

I just wanted to understand.

I stood at the broken entrance…

Silent… everything was silent…

Then…

I heard it.

A faint sound… like a moan.

At first, I thought it was the wind,

but the wind does not call names.

“…Mama…”

My blood froze.

The voice… was a child’s.

I went deeper…

Every step echoed… as if the place rejected my presence.

Then the sounds began to multiply…

Crying…

Muffled screams…

Broken breaths…

As if the hospital… had never emptied.

I saw a shadow.

A child… standing at the end of the hallway.

His clothes were torn… covered in dust,

but his face…

was not the face of someone alive.

His eyes… were empty,

as if he was searching for something he would never find.

He whispered:

“Why did you leave us?”

I stepped back… but my feet wouldn’t move.

Then a woman appeared…

holding a lifeless child…

She rocked him gently…

and whispered:

“Wake up… the bombing is over… wake up…”

But the child… couldn’t hear.

Because he… had died long ago.

Suddenly…

Everything went silent.

A terrifying silence.

Then…

A scream.

Not one…

but hundreds… all at once.

As if the earth itself was screaming.

I fell to the ground… covering my ears…

but the sounds… were not outside.

They were inside my head.

As if something was speaking… from within me:

“We are here… we didn’t leave…”

I remembered what they said about the “companion”…

That every person has something within them…

something that sees what we cannot… hears what we cannot…

But…

what if it wasn’t just mine?

What if…

all those souls…

found their way… into me?

I ran out of the hospital…

But before I escaped…

I heard one last sentence:

“Tell our story… don’t let us disappear…”

Since that night…

I haven’t slept.

Because every time I close my eyes…

I see them.

The same child…

the same woman…

the same screams…

And sometimes…

I wake up in the middle of the night…

and hear a voice… not mine…

whisper:

“It’s not only our turn…”

Since then…

I’m no longer sure…

if I’m still alive…

or if I’m just…

carrying them inside me.

I started walking a lot…

As if my feet were searching for something…

or someone.

There’s a house beside me…

or what remains of it.

A pile of rubble…

but not like any other.

Beneath it…

my friend.

And his family.

Eight months…

and they are still there.

They were never brought out…

never buried…

as if they’re trapped between worlds.

Every day I pass by…

and try not to look.

But every time…

something unseen pulls me.

One night…

I stopped.

Without a reason.

Or maybe…

for the first time… there was one.

I looked at the rubble…

and stood there… silently.

Then…

I heard him.

The same voice…

but clearer this time.

Closer.

Harsher.

“What did I do… for them to kill me and my family?”

I froze.

This wasn’t imagination.

This…

was him.

Then the sounds returned…

the same ones from the hospital…

Crying…

Screams…

Choking breaths…

But this time…

they weren’t far away.

They were beneath my feet.

I felt the ground…

pulsing.

Once…

Twice…

I stepped back…

but a voice inside me said:

“Come down…”

It wasn’t my voice.

And it wasn’t theirs.

It was… something in between.

I slowly bent down…

and placed my hand on the rubble…

The moment I touched it…

everything exploded.

I saw the bombing…

I heard the blast…

I felt the dust filling their lungs…

I saw my friend…

trying to scream…

but no one could hear him.

Then…

he opened his eyes.

And looked straight at me.

He said:

“Now… can you hear me?”

I screamed… and pulled my hand away…

but I was no longer the same.

Since that day…

the voices don’t just visit me…

They live inside me.

When I walk…

I hear footsteps that aren’t mine.

When I’m silent…

I hear conversations that aren’t mine.

And sometimes…

when I pass by that house…

it’s not me who stops.

I find myself getting closer…

and closer…

And whispering… without realizing:

“Wait… I’m coming…”

One night…

I returned to the hospital.

I don’t know why…

or maybe…

they brought me back.

I stood in the same place…

the same hallway…

But this time…

I wasn’t alone.

They were all there.

The child…

the woman…

and my friend…

They looked at me…

with the same empty eyes…

but this time…

they didn’t ask.

They said…

in one voice:

“Now… you’re one of us.”

I felt something inside me…

break.

Or… set free.

I was no longer afraid.

I no longer ran.

Because I finally understood…

I wasn’t visiting them…

They…

were pulling me toward them…

Slowly…

Silently…

Until…

I became one of them.

And since then…

if you ever pass at night…

by Al-Maamadani Hospital…

or that ruined house…

and you hear a voice…

calling:

“What did we do…?”

or a whisper saying:

“Tell our story…”

don’t turn around.

Because if you do…

you might see me.

Standing there…

looking at you…

and smiling.

And in the end…

I found no answer.

Not why they were killed…

Nor why their voices remained.

But I understood one thing…

That death there… was not the end.

Manufacturing Dissent exists because of you. We are a fiercely independent citizen outlet, powered only by our readers and listeners—not corporations, not advertisers. Every story we tell, every truth we uncover, depends on your support. For less than the price of a coffee, you can become a member and help us grow stronger, louder, and more fearless. Right now, annual memberships are 30% off. Stand with us. Fuel citizen journalism. Be the reason dissent thrives.

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So you’re in a tent. You’re in your mid twenties. Last year you became a mother for the second time. Your husband was killed by a tank shell when he was out to get water six months ago. They only found his arm and his head. After he was hit the tank that killed him found it necessary to drive over him. The spot where he died looked like the ground of an abbatoir. Neither of you are politically involved. He was a fisherman before October 7th and you were a homemaker, in hip American lingo. You have two children. One is four and has stopped speaking entirely, even though before October 7th he talked non-stop, prattling commentary on anything he was doing while playing and firing off questions about whatever new thing he discovered. Now not a word. When a stranger comes near, he growls.

Your daughter is 8 months old. She has chronic diarrhea. She is always cold, so you try to keep her practically glued to your own skin, close to your warm breath, covered in several layers, but the layers are too thin. You’d need a thick fur coat to really keep her warm like this. Your grandfather used to talk about how warm those are. He studied engineering in Moscow in the 1960s. Try finding fur coats in Gaza though. Try finding anything in Gaza now.

Your parents are dead, your father died in the invasion of 2014 when the building he was doing some repair work in was struck by Israeli bombs. His chest was crushed by falling debris and he clung to life in a hospital for two days.

Your mum died of a heart attack while fleeing her home in northern gaza begin November 2023. She was carrying her most prized possessions, family photo albums, pots and pans and blankets made by her own great great grandmother. In her arms she was carrying one of her 2 year old grandchildren, your niece, the youngest daughter of your brother. Current whereabouts unknown. Your mum collapsed and with her last strength prevented her granddaughter from hitting her head on the ground. She went without saying a word.

So the last thing you remember her saying was hours before her death: ‘What about Kareem’s birthday cake?’ She had prepared a cake for your brother and when people started rushing to the south she realized she couldn’t take it with her.

So now you are in a tent with your two kids and your niece. Your sister in law is also dead. She got hit by a sniper right above the knee and bled to death in little truck used to transport poultry before October 7th. A tourniquet could have saved her life, but in the chaos nobody had the reflex to perform this simple procedure. Her last words were: ‘Please treat my little girl as if she was your own.’ Your niece will have not even one memory of her own mother, so yeah, you will indeed be the only mum she will ever know.

You had some hope when the ceasefire was announced, but today Israel has announced that no goods will be coming in. The doctors have told you that your baby girl is in critical need of pure water and antibiotics. All expected to come in on lorries, now held up near the Egyptian border.

The few times you get to go online with your phone distant relatives abroad think it’s a good idea to send you some of the mocking videos Israelis are making. Thanks to posts on telegramme you know that a burned Palestinian child is a ‘hotdog’ and what happened to your husband Israelis call ‘making a Palestinian pancake’.

On social media you also see plenty of users with no profile pictures repeat and again and again that ‘winning a war you didn’t start, is not a war crime.’ And when babies die here, those people will write ‘Palestinians should take better care of their children.’ Salt in open wounds, because everyone here is fighting round the clock to keep their children alive.

In the tent next to you lives a family and their three year old girl has lost both legs. She crawls around as if she’s never known anything else. Initially she had lost only her feet when the flat they were in was bombed, but because of the dire situation in the healthcare system that Israel targets she got infected again and again until she lost both of her little legs. At night you can hear her mum wail and beat herself with a leather belt. Usually she screams that she should have kept the girl in the bath tub. The mum has heard that babies who were kept under a flipped over bath tub survived some bombardments unscathed. Sometimes the father stares at you and mutters: ‘I don’t know why she tortures herself like that. We didn’t even have a bath tub in our flat, we only had a shower installed.’

Your baby girl will die in the course of next week, because no aid will reach you on time. So the war gave you an extra daughter and will take one daughter away.

Today you hear ten year old boys talk about the situation. One says: ‘As soon as Hamas turns over all the hostages, the Israelis will resume their offensive. It will be worse than before. They can’t defeat our warriors, but they can kill all the rest of us. They will cut Gaza down the middle again. Their ships will bombard the coast line, their air force will pummel us, their tanks and artillery will randomly shoot at tents and we will all be forced to flee to the Egyptian border. Then Trump will threaten Egypt with economic sanctions and they will have to take in those that survive.’ An other boy asks: ‘So why don’t we go to the Egyptian border right now and be the first ones in?’ The answer: ‘Don’t be silly, if we start moving to the Egyptian border now the Israelis will shoot us because they will think we will try to smuggle in aid.’ The other boy nods as if he should have known that himself.

The war has turned kids into military and political analysts.

But not your baby girl. She is a shivering leaf of a little human, any fluids you manage to put in, her cramped up body flushes out. You can see she’s losing the strength to even cry about her situation. Her color is fading. She has your husband’s eyes and they look dry and glazed over, as if she’s already crossing the threshold to some other world.

A dwindling autumn leaf before she could fully enjoy her first spring.

With her will die the tree she grew on. Though the tree will keep standing and will have some leaves left, inside the tree will be dead and petrified.

The newspapers will not print your girl’s name and no tower will be lit up to match the color of her first curls, because this is not a regrettable death in the eyes of the ruling class, this is an execution.

*As retold by William Peynsaert on X.

Manufacturing Dissent exists because of you. We are a fiercely independent citizen outlet, powered only by our readers and listeners—not corporations, not advertisers. Every story we tell, every truth we uncover, depends on your support. For less than the price of a coffee, you can become a member and help us grow stronger, louder, and more fearless. Right now, annual memberships are 30% off. Stand with us. Fuel citizen journalism. Be the reason dissent thrives.

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I’ve shared many stories from Gaza, but I won’t try to rewrite this one. I could never tell Sameh’s story the way he tells it himself. I could never put his experiences, his losses, or the way he explains his life into clearer words than he already has. So instead of trying to retell it, I’m letting you hear it directly from him.

Sameh is 23. His wife is 23. They were nursing students before the war, building a simple life together. What happened to them after that — the destruction, the displacement, the fear, the miscarriages, the constant starting over — is something no young couple should ever have to live through. These are his own words, and I’m simply giving him the space to be heard.

For clarity: when he mentions “my dear mother Omaima,” he is talking about a close friend of mine who has been helping him and his family survive during these months of hardship.

Sameh:

I am Sameh Mahmoud from Gaza. I am married, and both my wife and I are 23 years old. Before the war, we were a husband and wife studying nursing at Palestine University. My wife was the top student in her class, and I used to work after university hours in a marble factory.

My story began on 23/10/2023. That morning, I woke up feeling very afraid, though I didn’t know why. After washing my face, I decided to go to the market to buy some food with the little money I had left. My wife insisted on coming with me, and I didn’t refuse since the market wasn’t far from our home.

We arrived at the market, and after a very short time, a massive explosion happened. I felt as if my heart had been ripped out of my chest. I grabbed what I had bought and headed back home… but that was the moment of shock and slow death.

When I arrived, I saw my beautiful home reduced to a pile of stones and rubble. It wasn’t a big house, but it was big enough to hold our dreams. The neighbors didn’t know we were outside, so when I arrived, I found them searching for me and my wife under the rubble. Alhamdulillah, we were not inside.

I kept thinking: how will I live now? Our clothes, our belongings, all the basics of our lives and our dreams were inside that house. The house was destroyed — and with it, everything.

We were forced to go live with my family. When we arrived, my parents welcomed us and gave us food and water. Living together as a family helped ease the sound of death around us.

But it didn’t last long. After a little over a month, on 05/01/2024, tanks entered our area without warning. Our house was the first in the area. We were forced to leave while the tanks stood at our door. Again, we left with nothing — no food, no clothes, not even a glimpse of hope. We felt as if a tank shell could hit us at any moment.

We were forced to flee to Deir al-Balah. My parents, my two brothers, my sister, my wife, and I spent our first night sleeping in the street. The next morning, nearby shelling woke us in terror. A woman whose husband had been martyred saw us from her window. She came out and took us to a piece of land that had belonged to her late husband. She brought us some wood and a small tarp and said, “This is all I have — you must build a tent with it.”

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My father and I quickly built the tent. The woman returned with one mattress and three blankets. Because my mother suffers from asthma and breathing problems, we gave her the mattress. We slept on the sand. One blanket for my mother, one for my father and my brothers, and one for me, my wife, and my sister.

The tent was extremely small. After four days, with tears in my eyes, I was forced to send my wife to live with her family because I couldn’t bear the suffering she was going through with me. We said goodbye in front of her family’s house in Nuseirat camp, and I returned to our fragile tent.

Because everyone was cooking on fire, and because of my mother’s illness, her condition worsened from the smoke and dust. We took her to the hospital, but on the way, her condition deteriorated, and she fell into a coma. I never left her side. I slept at her feet every day.

She remained in a coma for 9 days. Alhamdulillah, she came out of intensive care and was moved to the cardiac unit. Then the doctor told us: if your mother stays in the tent, next time we may not be able to save her.

I was overwhelmed with fear and pain. I asked my father to let my sister stay with my mother, and I went searching for a place to rent. After two days, I found a small room with a bathroom for 1200 shekels.

We lived there, but on the first night, I couldn’t pay the rent. I asked the landlord to give me two days, but he refused and threw us out into the street.

A neighbor saw us and allowed us to stay temporarily. I went out again searching for a solution and met a friend who advised me to start a fundraising campaign. He told me about a house for rent, so I took it and began creating a campaign.

Since I didn’t know anyone who could help me create a GoFundMe or Chuffed campaign, I used FundHope, a Lebanese platform. I started promoting my story on X.

I raised $3,050, but when I tried to withdraw, the platform took a 31% commission. Then my withdrawal request was rejected without refunding the commission. This happened four times. On the fifth attempt, it was accepted, and after 21 days, I received only $990 out of $3,050. The rest was lost in commissions.

I paid the rent, even though we were barely eating one meal a day.

A week later, my wife’s family called me. When I went to meet them, they told me: either you take your wife to live with you, or you separate.

I was devastated.

My family’s home was too small, so I was forced to rent another furnished house. With the help of my dear mother Omaima, who is very precious to me, I was able to rent it. She also helped me raise donations for rent, food, and my wife’s university fees.

After a short time, we discovered that my wife was pregnant. I felt great joy — as if life was finally giving me a moment of happiness. But after two and a half months, she miscarried. We said Alhamdulillah and tried to move on.

Two months later, she became pregnant again. Hope returned — but after three months, she miscarried again. At that moment, I felt that happiness was not written for me.

Today, I am revealing something I didn’t want to tell my dear mother Omaima so she wouldn’t be sad: my wife miscarried again in the middle of Ramadan.

Two months ago, the landlord asked us to leave because he wanted the house for his son. We found another house, but it had nothing — no mattresses, no blankets, no water tank, nothing.

Thanks to my dear mother Omaima, we managed to rent it. I posted on X asking for help to buy a water tank, but there was no response. We lived for a month and a half without water.

Again, my dear mother Omaima helped us buy the tank, pay rent, and provide food.

Now, we urgently need to pay $750 for rent within two days (including commission), and we need $680 for basic home necessities like mattresses, blankets, and clothes, as each of us only has one set of clothes.

In the end, I extend my deepest thanks to my beloved mother Omaima, sister Leila, sister Kathy, and everyone who has helped or will help us. 🥺❤️🫂

Closing / Call to Action

Please help if you can. This community has come together so many times to support families in Gaza, and you can feel the desperation in Sameh’s own words. He and his wife have lost their home more than once. They’ve lost their safety. They’ve lost their unborn children. They are trying to rebuild a life from nothing.

Any support makes a difference. And if you cannot give, please share. Sharing helps the story reach someone who might be able to help when you can’t.

Thank you for reading his story and for standing with this young couple in their hardest moments.

Donate to Sameh and Suhad

Donate: https://chuffed.org/project/sameh

If you want to contact Sameh and give him words of support, you can do so through his Twitter account: SamehMahmou2003

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Aya is thirteen. A child. She was injured in this genocide, and she’s living with pain every day. She needs medical care her family can’t afford. That’s the entire story. A child was hurt, and now she needs help. That's my focus.

The children of Gaza are forced to grow up long before their time. They don’t get a childhood. They don’t get safety. They don’t get the space to be kids. The world couldn’t stop the violence, and the cost of that failure landed on them. They carry fears and responsibilities no child should ever have to carry. Aya is one of them.

These are her own words:

"What I yearn for most is a chance to heal, to live without constant pain, and to return to the simple joys of childhood—with hope instead of fear guiding my steps."

Her campaign has been open for a month and has barely moved. She is the youngest person I’ve ever tried to help. The idea that a thirteen-year-old has to go online and ask strangers for help just to get basic medical care should bother everyone.

She also wrote this:

"The chance to receive weekly medical care wouldn’t just ease my pain — it would help me feel whole again. It would give my body relief and give my spirit room to breathe, letting me imagine a future bigger than the limits I live with today. Your support would mean safety right now, and the possibility of a future where I can grow, learn, and smile without fear. It would ease the heavy worry my family carries over medical bills, and it would remind me that I am not alone — that there are people in this world who still choose compassion, who stand with me in this moment of need."

That is a thirteen-year-old speaking about pain, fear, and medical bills. No child should have to think like this.

If people want to reach out to her directly — to give her a word of encouragement or just speak to her as a human being — she is on Twitter at @mmdzm132100. You can DM her there.

If you want to donate, her campaign is here:

https://chuffed.org/project/170878-hope-for-healing-gaza-childs-courage-to-endure

DONATE TO AYA

And because people always worry about whether a campaign is real, I want to make this clear so the focus stays on helping her:

This campaign is managed by One Palestine, a registered 501(c)(3) public charity (EIN 39-3059481). Donations go directly to verified beneficiaries in Gaza. Every recipient is identity-verified. All transfers follow U.S. charity and anti–money laundering regulations. You can read more at one-palestine.org.

I’m including this so people don’t get stuck on doubts. This is legitimate. Aya is real. Her injuries are real. Her need is real.

She is thirteen.

Please share her campaign. Re‑stack this with your own words. Center her. Center her need. If you can donate, even a small amount helps. Let’s try to get her the care she needs.

Traditional aid faces huge challenges: border restrictions, layers of coordination (UN to NGOs to local groups), security risks, and dangerous distribution sites. Supplies often sit in warehouses as people go hungry. Millions in aid get stuck at crossings.

There are real concerns about aid diversion. Some channels have faced theft, taxation, and redirection of funds. When donors can't verify where their money goes, scepticism grows and trust breaks down.

This is a major barrier to effective giving.

The process for in-kind aid is expensive and slow:

Donor → Organisation → Procurement → Shipping → Customs → Warehousing → Distribution.

Every step adds cost and delay, while families wait desperately for help to arrive.

Most people don’t realise traditional aid only covers generic supplies, bulk food, and hygiene kits. What about chronic medications, transport for evacuation, private doctors, or even carpenters for makeshift tents?

One-size-fits-all aid misses these critical needs.

Orphans, widows, and injured men unable to work rely on services that no aid organisation covers: building shelter, digging waste holes, transportation to safety, and private medical care. These services can mean the difference between survival and tragedy.

The Reality

Not enough aid enters Gaza to cover all needs. But commercial goods and services do exist. If people have access to cash or digital payments. Families with funds can buy what they need; those without are left behind.

Gazans receive digital dollars (USDT/USDC) directly to crypto wallets like Binance or Bybit. They use these to pay for goods, services, carpenters, doctors, and education. There is a functioning economy; people just need access to it.

But direct funding raises a critical question: verification.

How do you know the person is real, in Gaza, and truly in need? How do you avoid funding illegal activity?

That’s where our system comes in; every fundraiser is verified using Sumsub KYC.

This isn’t basic ID checking

I use enterprise-grade KYC/AML: anti-money laundering monitoring, PEP screening, real-time identity, location verification, and sanctions checks.

Donors know their money goes to real, verified people in Gaza.

I’ve included samples & my personal verification to confirm that I’m neither restricted nor involved in any AML.

Want extra assurance?

Donors can request to see a masked Binance/Bybit verification page, make a video call with the fundraiser, or see proof of KYC from global platforms.

No extra hoops for Gazans; they use the verification they already have.

Why trust Binance/Bybit verification?

These global entities face massive regulatory scrutiny and have everything to lose if they verify someone incorrectly.

Their standards are higher than most governments, giving you real assurance.

Our direct verified model delivers up to 95% of your donation straight to the recipient’s device.

Compare: NGOs might get $60-70 of your $100 to families after overhead; our model delivers $95 instantly for specific needs.

Campaigns are verified in under 10 minutes.

“But what about Hamas?”

That’s why verification matters. Modern KYC/AML systems screen for political exposure and sanctions, automatically flagging connections to designated organisations. If someone doesn’t pass, they don’t get access. Period.

“Why not just donate to NGOs?”

NGOs do vital work but face restrictions, limited volume, and high overhead. Their supplies are generic, not tailored to individual needs. Our direct verified funding complements NGOs by addressing specific, urgent family needs.

Our track record: 0 scams, 100% verified campaigns, enterprise-grade compliance, direct donor-to-family connections, full transparency, no hidden fees.

We use the same systems that protect billions in crypto transactions, and families get funds instantly for real needs.

This model isn’t just for Gaza; it works anywhere traditional aid can’t meet individual needs, but commercial goods are available. It restores trust in charitable giving and ensures donations address actual, urgent requirements.

If you want your donation to reach real people, address life-saving service needs, and provide full transparency, follow this account and check the link in bio.

Every campaign is verified, every need is specific, every dollar goes where it’s needed most.

Also, visit GazaFunds.com and

https://lifeline4gaza.com, both stand for integrity in fundraising, verifying campaigns and correcting errors across platforms.

No self-promotion, no conflicts of interest, just a focus on the voices and families most in need, not the ones trending.

So, does aid reach Gaza?

Sometimes, partially, and it’s generic.

Does verified direct funding reach families with exactly what they need?

Yes, immediately and specifically. Trust through global verification, individual solutions, and direct access to Gaza’s economy.

Written by @AmrElhelbawi on Twitter

That is why this is the right place to ask for support for the Gaza Great Minds Foundation.

Education in Gaza is not simply schooling. It is resistance. It is identity. It is how Palestinians protect their culture and their future in the face of a genocide that is trying to erase both.

Israel targeted Gaza’s schools to destroy the next generation

Since October 2023, Israel has bombed nearly every school in Gaza. The destruction is almost total. When you destroy schools, you are not only destroying buildings. You are destroying the next generation of Palestinians. You are cutting into the future of a people.

This is not accidental. It is part of the genocide. It is part of the attempt to break Gaza’s future by breaking its children.

Palestinians have always treated education as something sacred. Even before the war, Palestinians had some of the highest rates of university enrollment in the region. Education has always been a core part of their resistance. It is how they hold on to their history, their dignity, and their identity.

This is why rebuilding education is not optional. It is urgent.

When schools are bombed, Palestinians rebuild them

When schools are bombed, Palestinians rebuild them. Sometimes in tents. Sometimes in rubble. Sometimes with nothing but a whiteboard and a few chairs. Because stopping education is not an option.

was created by teachers in Gaza who refused to let the war end their students’ futures. They set up tent schools so children could keep learning even while displaced, hungry, and grieving. One of the teachers, Ahmed Abo Rizik, helped establish these schools to give children some semblance of normality in the middle of destruction.

These schools are recognized by the Ministry of Education in Gaza. They do not charge tuition, because no parent in Gaza can afford it. Many teachers work without pay just to keep the schools running.

The foundation currently operates two active schools, serving over 2,000 children who would otherwise have no access to education at all. When funding allows, they also try to provide one meal a day for each child. Sometimes that is the only meal that child will eat. But funding has been short for months, and they rarely reach their monthly target of £10,000, which is the bare minimum needed to keep the schools open.

You can also follow the on Substack, where teachers post daily updates from the schools. You can see the students, their lessons, their drawings, their joy, and the small moments of normal life they are trying to rebuild.

A Message From Gaza Great Minds: What the School Itself Wants the World to Know

Before anything else, it’s important to hear directly from the people doing this work on the ground. Gaza Great Minds is not simply running classrooms — they are rebuilding the future in real time. Their mission, their scale, and their needs have evolved, and they’ve shared an updated statement that captures exactly what they are facing today.

Here is their message, in full:

📚 Rebuilding the Future: A Call for Strategic Partnership

Education is not just a right; in Gaza, it is a lifeline.

In the midst of unprecedented challenges, the dreams of thousands of children remain steadfast. They aren't just looking for safety; they are looking for a future. Gaza Great Minds is dedicated to ensuring that the next generation does not lose their path, but instead finds a beacon of hope through learning.

Why Your Partnership Matters

We aren’t looking for one-time donors; we are looking for visionary partners. By joining hands with Gaza Great Minds, you are directly investing in the intellectual and psychological resilience of over 2,000 students.

How your contribution creates change:

• Student Wellbeing: Providing critical psychosocial support to help children heal and focus.

• Empowering Educators: Sponsoring teacher incentives to keep the heart of the classroom beating.

• Essential Logistics: Funding the supplies and materials necessary to turn a space into a sanctuary of learning.

The Value of Our Alliance

We believe in a partnership built on trust and mutual growth. As a partner, your organization will receive:

• Global Visibility: Recognition in international media outlets.

• On-Site & Digital Branding: Placement within our centers and featured social media recognition.

• Radical Transparency: Detailed impact reports showing exactly how your support translates into “real numbers and real hope.”

“We are currently operating 2 active schools, serving 2,000+ students. But the need is growing every day.”

Join Us Today

Let’s build a future where every child in Gaza has a book in their hand and a path forward. Education cannot wait, and neither can they.

📩 Become a Strategic Partner: Sponsor@GazaGreatMinds.org

Why education still matters in a genocide

People naturally prioritize food, water, and shelter in a crisis. But Palestinians themselves will tell you that education is not something they put aside. Many would choose education even if it meant cutting back on their own basic needs. That is how deeply it is tied to their identity.

Supporting Gaza Great Minds is not symbolic. It is not charity. It is not a gesture.

It is investing in the future of Gaza.

It is protecting the next generation.

It is refusing to let Israel’s destruction of schools become the destruction of a people.

How you can support

There are two direct ways to help:

1. Donate directly to Gaza Great Minds Foundation

Every pound goes straight to the schools.

Website: GazaGreatMinds.org

Gaza Great Minds Foundation

Direct donation link: https://donate.stripe.com/8wM9Es8Wb6x810s7sJ

Donate To Gaza Great Minds Foundation

2. Become a paid subscriber at:

All revenue from paid subscriptions goes directly to the foundation.

This creates stable, predictable monthly support.

A student’s voice

Below is the writing of one of the students at Gaza Great Minds. Her name is Ghazal Alhindy. She is thirteen years old. She has been journaling throughout the genocide.

Her words speak for themselves.

Arranging Chaos

Written by Ghazal Alhindy, a student at our school

She was arranging chaos.

She sat in a house shaking under the sounds of bombardment, holding her pen as if it were a lifeline.

She documented everything, writing the date, recording the details, retelling each moment as though she feared it might be forgotten.

She was not writing only to release her fear; she was writing as if someone would one day read it.

At thirteen, she was supposed to be occupied with school assignments, seventh-grade textbooks, and conversations with her friends.

Instead, she followed the news closely, memorized the names of massacres, and waited for confirmation that her father and brother had survived the Flour Massacre, the way any child waits for reassurance that their family is safe.

She wrote about the moment the occupation forces withdrew from near her home as if it were a new beginning.

She wrote about Hind Rajab, praying that her fate would not be like that of the other children.

She was afraid, but she kept writing, as if writing were her only way to remain steady amid all that fear.

“I am afraid.”

It is the sentence children in Gaza learned too early.

As the days passed, her notebook no longer sounded like a child’s diary.

It began to read like a record.

Not because she wanted to grow up,

but because the war left her no choice.

It stole her school.

It stole her routines.

It stole her childhood.

Even the quiet moments a teenager needs to discover herself,

to sit in silence and ask: Who am I? What do I love? What do I want to become?

What would she be writing about if she felt safe?

Maybe about Gaza’s beach in the summer.

Maybe about a hobby she had just begun to love.

Maybe about her favorite meal from her mother’s hands, instead of writing about hunger.

Maybe she would look at the sky and listen to birds in the morning, instead of counting drones and bullets striking her windows.

She was arranging chaos.

And the chaos never stopped.

But she kept writing.

Why I am asking here

This community understands what education means.

You understand what it means to protect a mind.

You understand what it means to invest in a future.

Gaza’s children deserve that future.

And we have the ability to help protect it.

“She used to run everywhere,” her mother, Ansam, says. “Then the pain started coming every few months. She couldn’t jump, couldn’t stand for long. She tried to hide it from her siblings.”

Before the current genocide, the family managed to get her to Jerusalem for surgery. Doctors removed part of her thigh muscle and urged annual CT angiography to monitor the tumor. But once she returned to Gaza, the pain worsened. And when Israel’s assault began, even the most basic medical care disappeared. Painkillers, imaging, follow-ups, functioning hospitals, safe roads to reach them, all of it collapsed under bombardment.

Now the tumor is growing again. And it is growing fast.

“Look at Sumaya,” Ansam says. “The tumor in her leg is getting bigger every day. It threatens her life. Her condition is deteriorating, and time is running out.”

Sumaya understands the danger.

“My dream was to study medicine,” she says. “I wanted to become a vascular surgeon. I wanted to help people like me.”

Her voice carries the quiet determination of a girl who has learned to live with pain but refuses to surrender her future.

A Plea That Goes Beyond Food and Shelter

Most families in Gaza who reach out to the world are asking for food, tents, or a safe place to sleep. Ansam’s family needs all of that too, but their plea is different. They are asking for something that requires preparation, timing, and money at the exact moment the opportunity appears: a medical evacuation.

And that opportunity is controlled entirely by Israel.

Israel decides who leaves Gaza, who gets medical evacuation, who is allowed to cross, and who is left behind. Every name on the list is approved or denied by the same state that has bombed hospitals, destroyed clinics, and turned Gaza’s health system into rubble. Families wait for months, knowing that when their turn comes, they must be ready. If they are not, the chance disappears.

For Sumaya, missing that chance could be FATAL.

“My daughter has mangioma, a serious vascular disease,” Ansam explains. “If left untreated, her heart could suddenly stop.”

The family is trying to raise 5,000 euros to cover new passports, travel costs, and the surgery she urgently needs. It is a modest amount compared to the stakes. It is the difference between being prepared when Israel finally allows her name through or watching the opportunity vanish while her condition worsens.

A Family Asking for Solidarity, Not Pity

Ansam is not asking the world to fix Gaza. She is asking for something smaller and more intimate: help to save her daughter’s life.

“Your support can save her from death,” she says. “Let’s all unite to save Sumaya.”

For anyone who wants to reach the family directly, Ansam shares updates and messages through her Twitter account at AnsamHarb2061.

Donations to support Sumaya’s evacuation and treatment can be made through their GoFundMe page: https://www.gofundme.com/f/support-me-in-my-lovely-daughters-recovery-journey.

Help Evacuate Sumaya

In a place where survival is often measured in hours, this family is fighting for something bigger, a future for a girl who still dreams of studying, healing, and living without pain.

“I'm Sumaya -17 years old. I'm fighting a serious illness. I'm only asking for a chance to get treatment. And to laugh from my heart again. Help me continue on this path. Your donation = New hope”

Some people in Gaza carry their suffering quietly. They refuse to plead for help or complain about what has been done to them, even when the world has taken everything from them. Dr. Hossam Hamad is one of those people. He is a 60 year old medical laboratory specialist from Beit Hanoun who spent his entire life serving his community. He diagnosed patients, supported families, and helped people heal. He never centered his own hardship.

Even now, after Israel destroyed his laboratory, flattened his home, burned his car, and bombed the tent his family was sheltering in, he still speaks with calm dignity. He does not plead. He does not complain. He mentions his needs only when they involve his daughters’ future.

So the responsibility falls on others to speak for him. What happened to him is not random. It is part of a pattern. Medical personnel in Gaza are targeted along with their families. Their homes are destroyed. Their cars are burned. Their shelters are bombed. Their lives are dismantled piece by piece. Because he will not plead for himself, his story must be told for him.

Main Article (first person, from Dr. Hossam)

My name is Dr. Hossam Hamad. I am 60 years old. For my entire life, I worked as a medical laboratory specialist in Beit Hanoun. I owned a laboratory that served my community. I spent my youth and my strength helping patients, diagnosing illnesses, and supporting families. I was proud of my work. I was proud to be someone people could rely on.

Today, I live in a tent that has already been flooded by winter rain.

Israel destroyed my laboratory. They destroyed my home. They burned my car. They bombed the tent my family fled to. Everything I built over a lifetime is gone. I went from a capable person to someone who has nothing. I never imagined I would reach this point.

Seven of us are living in this tent. It is ripped open from the bombing. When the winter storms came, the water poured straight in. The ground turned to mud beneath us. Our blankets were soaked. The cold was so sharp it felt like it was cutting through our bones. We spent nights awake because the water kept rising around us. We tried to lift our belongings off the ground, but there is nowhere dry to put anything.

Winter is now fading, but the damage is done. The tent is still torn. The cold has weakened our bodies. The dampness has made us sick. We survived the worst months, but we are not safe. We are not stable. We are not living. We are only enduring.

I have five daughters. Two are graduates, 26 and 24. They cannot find work because Gaza has no economy left. Two are in university. One needs 700 dollars per semester. The other needs 1,000. My youngest is 14 and needs 100 dollars a month for school supplies. I want them to continue their education. It is the only thing I can still give them.

I do not plead for help. I do not complain about my situation. I simply state the truth of our life now. The only time I speak of need is when I speak of my daughters. Their education is their future. It is their protection. It is the one thing that cannot be taken from them.

Here is what we need to survive:

• 1,700 dollars every four months for university fees.

• 100 dollars per month for my youngest daughter’s school supplies.

• 800 dollars per month for food for seven people.

• 200 dollars per month to repair or replace the tent that was bombed and flooded.

• 150 dollars per month for basic necessities.

Support for my two unemployed graduate daughters.

This is what it takes to keep my family alive. This is what it takes to keep my daughters in school. This is what it takes to survive after everything has been taken from us.

I spent my life helping others. Now I am speaking quietly, with dignity, for the sake of my daughters.

“This is our kitchen inside the tent. This is our clothes hanging on a wire because we don't have cupboards, these holes in our tent, and our bedding. We are making breakfast.”

Closing

If you want to help Dr. Hossam and his family recover from the winter flooding, continue his daughters’ education, and rebuild even a small part of the life Israel destroyed, you can donate here:

https://chuffed.org/project/doctorhossam

DONATE TO DR. HOSSAM

If you want to reach out to him directly, offer solidarity, or simply let him know he is not alone, you can contact him on Twitter:

@KafarnaAhl73154

Every form of support matters. Donations, resharing, commenting, boosting the post, leaving a note. Engagement is not a small thing. It is how stories travel. It is how help reaches the people who need it.

And it is important to understand why he keeps returning to his daughters’ education. For Palestinians, education is not optional. It is survival. It is the one thing no army can bomb out of a person. Palestinians have one of the highest academic attainment rates relative to GDP in the world because learning has always been a form of resistance, dignity, and continuity. When everything else is taken, education is what remains.

Medical personnel in Gaza gave their lives to keep others alive. They were hunted for helping people. The least we can do is show up for them now.

Let us not leave a 60 year old doctor who spent his life healing others to survive in a torn, flooded tent.

DONATE TO DR. HOSSAM

Then the bombing reached him.

Ahmed was injured on July 20th 2025, while helping people during the attacks. He survived a total splenectomy and organ reconstruction, a level of trauma that reshapes a body and a future. He cannot work. He cannot lift. He cannot move the way he once did. He is a father of two, and his wife is pregnant. Their home was destroyed, and the family now lives in a tent by the sea, with no safety, no stability, and no access to proper medical care.

“I used to be the one treating the injured. Now I am the one struggling to stay alive.”

Anyone who has worked in medicine understands the weight of that sentence. Nurses, doctors, paramedics, midwives, technicians, volunteers. They are the first people we call when our bodies fail us. They are the ones who show up when we are frightened or in pain. They are the ones who hold the line between life and loss.

And when they fall, it becomes our responsibility to hold them.

“I had surgery from here to here. They removed organs, my pancreas….please help me.” (He sent me this video just moments ago)

Ahmed is recovering from major surgery while trying to protect his children and care for his pregnant wife in a tent. His wife needs proper nutrition and medical attention. His children need safety and stability. His elderly parents and siblings depend on him. The genocide has taken his home, his health, and his livelihood, but it has not taken his sense of duty.

He is still trying to protect everyone around him.

His fundraiser has been live for a month, yet it has only received €196. It is a painful reminder of how easily stories like his disappear into the noise of the world, even when the need is urgent and the suffering is real.

Ramadan is a month when billions reflect on compassion and caring for those in hardship. It is also a reminder that kindness is universal. Anyone, from any faith or background, can help ease the suffering of Ahmed’s family during this difficult time. Supporting him brings a small measure of comfort to a father recovering from major surgery, a pregnant wife in need of care, and two children trying to survive conditions no family should endure.

“My kids and relatives celebrate (Ramadan) in a tent amidst deep suffering.”

His fundraiser supports medical treatment for himself, his wife, and his children, along with basic needs like food, shelter, and medicine. Nothing more than what any of us would want for our own families.

You can support Ahmed here:

https://chuffed.org/project/166320-a-nurse-injured-by-war-fighting-to-protect-his-children

If anyone wishes to reach out to him directly, he is accessible on Twitter at @TiktookAli79267.

Ahmed said:

“I helped others because it was my duty as a nurse. Now I am asking the world to help me protect my family.”

A young nurse who once cared for others now needs the world to care for him. And if there is one thing the medical community understands, it is that no one survives alone.

He was there when others were injured or dying from Israel’s bombing and attacks, and now he needs us for the same reason. Every donation matters, and so does every share, every restack, every engagement thwat helps this reach more people.

DONATE TO AHMED AND HIS FAMILY

I did not plan to write an article today. I planned to write a Note. A simple, urgent Note asking people to help a displaced mother in Gaza feed her five children. But Substack barely showed it to anyone. The impressions were abnormally low. The reach was almost nonexistent. It felt like the post was being smothered the moment it went up.

This keeps happening whenever I write about Palestinians. Every space they try to speak through gets dimmed or buried. It is exhausting to watch. It is infuriating to experience. And it is cruel, because the people who need visibility the most are the ones being pushed into silence.

So I am writing this article because the Notes were not allowed to breathe. I am writing it because Shrooq cannot afford for her story to disappear.

Who Shrooq Is

Shrooq Ahmed is a displaced mother living in Gaza with her husband and five children. Their home was bombed. They now live in a rented apartment they can barely afford. She is four months pregnant and malnourished. She is fighting a stomach infection and nerve damage. She is trying to keep her unborn child alive in a body that is starving.

Her children are:

- Jihad, 13, who suffers from a fractured thigh muscle and hearing loss. He has already undergone two failed surgeries.

- Mayar, 11.

- Jude, 8.

- Ghina, 6.

- Adam, 2, who needs orthopedic shoes and diapers.

Her husband, Ahmed, has a fractured jaw held together with metal plates. He also suffers from chronic asthma and a slipped disc. He needs daily painkillers and inhalers.

There is no stable income. Rent is 500 shekels a month. They are behind on payments. Food is scarce. Clean water is scarce. Medical care is almost nonexistent.

What She Said

"We are worn down by pain and hunger. I try to stay strong for my children, but I am crumbling inside. All I want is for them to eat, to feel a little warmth, to not suffer through Ramadan."

She had previously posted:

"I am pregnant and weak. I am terrified that one day we will be kicked out onto the street."

Her words are not exaggerations. They are the daily reality of a family pushed to the edge.

What She Needs Right Now

- Food for the children as Ramadan approaches

- Diapers for Adam

- Orthopedic shoes for Adam

- Medications for her husband

- Medications for herself

- Nutritional support during pregnancy

- Clean water and basic hygiene items

- Rent assistance to avoid eviction

The goal is $400. Enough for meals, basic supplies, and a small measure of relief.

Why I Had to Write This

I posted the Note yesterday. Then I posted a follow up. Then I asked people to share it. Hours passed and not a single donation came in, which is highly unusual from this beautiful community. Finally, a generous person donated £10. The Note barely reached anyone. It was not normal for my account. It was not an accident. It felt like suppression.

I wrote:

"Idky Substack keeps suppressing these notes I make for Palestinians. Haven't they suffered enough? Every space they try to speak through gets smothered. I hate this world. This note is barely getting any impressions, which is not normal for me."

I am frustrated because this is not about engagement. It is about survival. A mother begging for help should not be buried by an algorithm. A family in crisis should not be made invisible.

So here I am, writing an article because the platform would not let a Note do its job.

A Final Ask

If you can donate, please do. If you cannot, sharing matters. Engagement matters. Visibility matters. It helps her story reach someone who can help.

Donation link:

chuffed.org/project/shrooqahmed

DONATE TO SHROOQ

A little mercy can go a long way. And right now, mercy is all this family has left to hope for.

If you would like to get in touch with Shrooq, you can do so through Twitter. Her handle: @shrooqahme25931

Her family of eight has been displaced for two years. Their home was destroyed. They fled with nothing and have been wearing the same clothes ever since. Her son is seven. Her daughter is four. Her elderly in-laws are ill. Her cousin is doing what he can. And now there are two babies who entered the world under bombardment, into a tent with no warmth, no formula, and no diapers.

This is what it means to raise children in Gaza while a genocide continues. The bombs have not stopped. The starvation has not stopped. The targeting of babies has not stopped. And somehow, in the middle of all of this, a mother is trying to keep four children alive at once.

Her older children have caught the virus spreading across Gaza. The twins are sick too. She cannot afford treatment. She cannot afford formula. She cannot afford diapers. She cannot afford food. She is exhausted, frightened, and pleading for help.

Her needs are painfully simple.

Baby formula.

Diapers.

Food for her older children.

Medicine for all of them.

Clothes to replace the torn ones they have worn for two years.

A safe place to sleep that is not a shredded tent.

Ramadan is only days away. For Muslims, it is a month of giving, reflection, and caring for those who are suffering. It is the same way Christmas carries meaning for Christians: a time when generosity is not optional, when community matters, when no one should be left hungry or alone. Families around the world will gather for warm meals and prayer. Families in Gaza are trying to keep their children alive long enough to see the next sunrise.

This isn't politics. This is a mother begging strangers to help her keep her children alive while the world debates her right to exist.

If you want to help her directly, you can. Her donation link is here:

https://chuffed.org/project/omsela

If you want to reach out to her, speak to her, verify anything yourself, or offer support, she is available on Twitter: omsela120149

We say we stand with Palestinians. We say we refuse to let this genocide erase families. This is one of those moments when those words have to mean something. If you can donate, please do. If you can share, please share. If you can amplify her voice, do it now. It's not a hyperbole saying that lives do depend on it.

DONATE TO OM SELA AND HER CHILDREN