They Told You We Hate Each Other
In Gaza, when my son was born into hunger, our Christian brothers and sisters helped keep him alive.
In the heart of Gaza, where hunger weighs heavily on souls before bodies and the alleyways are choked with unbearable sorrow and waiting, there remain stories that stand in stark contrast to the cruelty we endure—stories that restore humanity’s faith in itself.
On June 26, 2025, this story unfolded—almost a year and four days ago—when my son, “Al‑Saqr” (The Falcon), was born into this world under unforgettable, difficult circumstances.
Brotherhood has never been mere words spoken from pulpits or written in slogans; it has been tested in the most trying moments. And in this land where suffering has touched everyone without exception, our Christian brothers and sisters have never stood on the sidelines of this suffering. They have always been an integral part of the human fabric that binds people together under one sky, sharing one hunger and one hope.
One day, I was displaced on Al-Jalaa Street, carrying the weight of fear and anxiety on my shoulders and, in my heart, a newborn child. My wife had given birth to my son, “Al-Saqr,” when he was just one day old, but life had not granted him time to begin his journey in peace. We were living through a severe famine. There was no milk, no diapers, and we couldn’t afford them because of the circumstances, the siege, and the soaring prices that were crippling everyone.
The doctor told me clearly, “Your baby needs milk and diapers immediately.” But the question was harder than the answer… where would we get them? How? We had almost nothing.
My wife tried to breastfeed him, but he wouldn’t respond. It was as if even nature itself was powerless to help us at that moment. I felt like the earth was closing in on me, and my fear for my child grew until it was suffocating. I cried… not out of weakness, but because I couldn’t see any way forward. I prayed fervently for relief, and I ran out into the streets, asking people: Does anyone have milk? Who can save a baby who had only just begun to live?
Then, in an unforgettable moment, God sent me a solution from where I least expected it. A friend saw me with tears streaming down my face and looking distraught. He asked, “What’s wrong, Alaa?” I told him everything that had happened, without hiding anything. He pointed me to one place and said, “Go to the church in the Old City… there are hearts that don’t turn away those in need.”
I went quickly, my heart racing ahead of my steps. When I arrived, I met a man named Michel inside the church. He didn’t ask where I was from, what I believed, or anything else—just the simple question: What do you need?
When I told him, he didn’t hesitate for a moment. He immediately gave me milk, diapers, two food parcels, and $100, then blessed my newborn with simple yet profound words: “We are all family… there is no difference between Muslim and Christian.”
Those words weren’t just a passing remark; they were a complete summary of what humanity means when it’s genuine.
In Gaza, people are measured not by their affiliations but by their hearts. And here, in this weary land, the true meaning of brotherhood is revealed. Our Christian brothers and sisters have never been strangers to suffering; they have been a part of it when it happens, and a part of alleviating it when it intensifies.
They did not abandon us in moments of hunger, nor in moments of siege, nor in moments of helplessness. They opened doors before they were even knocked on, offering what they could without expecting anything in return, as if to always say: Humanity is one, regardless of names or beliefs.
This is not just a story of aid… but a story of a heart embracing another heart in a moment when the world felt so small.
And in the end, the undeniable truth remains: in Gaza, despite all the pain, humanity is still alive… walking on its own two feet, knocking on doors, wiping away the tears of a child who doesn’t know why he came into this world in such a difficult time.
And those who extended their hands to us, our Christian brothers and sisters, were not merely supporters… they were living proof that mercy is stronger than anything, and that when a person remains human, everyone is saved, even if only for a moment, from the cruelty of the world.
Note: If you want to support Alaa (Digital Resistance), please consider donating to him or becoming a subscriber.
– Manufacturing Dissent –
Jesus the Christ asked "who is my neighbour?" Here he/she is. That's humanity in action.
What stays with me in this piece isn’t just the act of generosity, but the quiet correction it delivers to the world’s lazy narratives. People outside Gaza are told, over and over, that sectarian hatred is the natural state of this place. Yet when a newborn is starving, the people who step forward aren’t asking for a creed, a faction, or a flag. They’re asking what is needed.
This is what makes the story powerful: it exposes how much of the violence here is engineered from above, while the humanity is built from below. Ordinary people — Muslim and Christian — are doing the work of keeping each other alive while governments and armies do the opposite. That contrast is the real indictment.
And it’s also the real hope. Because if solidarity can survive famine, siege, displacement, and the deliberate destruction of daily life, then it’s stronger than the forces trying to erase it. The world keeps insisting Gaza is defined by conflict. Stories like this show it is defined, stubbornly, by community.