No title available
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
Cosimo Galluzzi
noise dept.
art blog(derogatory)
⁂
h
YOU ARE THE REASON
Product Placement
ojovivo
Show & Tell
roma★
JBB: An Artblog!
titsay
wallacepolsom
blake kathryn
No title available
Jules of Nature
Misplaced Lens Cap
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
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@fleshprocessor
hi, i'm hal! i'm very socially incompetent so lmk if i do or say anything odd or uncomfortable. i tend to like most things on my dash so i can keep track of whether i've seen them or not. i am
TME adult white fag
it/he
communist
i'm also on cohost and neocities!
New Cheerios pics!!!
New Cheerios pics!!!
New Cheerios pics!!!
New Cheerios pics!!!
Alien Miku
this morrowind review is 100% on point
W Main Street, Murfreesboro, North Carolina.
New Cheerios pics!!!
If you don't share this post, then examine your humanity. I suffer from severe depression and obsessive-compulsive disorder, and I haven't been able to take my medication because I haven't received donations to buy it. I am also currently suffering from malnutrition due to my illness.
Ignoring this will cost me my life. I swear to God I am mentally ill, and because of my illness, I have stopped eating. If anyone is able to donate, God will bless you because you will be helping someone who hasn't slept because my medication has run out. I haven't known peace. Please help me.
verification. GFM. PayPal
if anyone's able to donate, please do so. regardless, please reblog this, so more people can help. if you are able to donate, please do so through paypal. thank you.
$1,521 raised of $7K
[22%]
The genocide in Palestine 🇵🇸 is still happening and the people in Palestine still need support so if you can donate PLEASE DO!!!! Anything helps!!!!
If you don't share this post, then examine your humanity. I suffer from severe depression and obsessive-compulsive disorder, and I haven't been able to take my medication because I haven't received donations to buy it. I am also currently suffering from malnutrition due to my illness.
Ignoring this will cost me my life. I swear to God I am mentally ill, and because of my illness, I have stopped eating. If anyone is able to donate, God will bless you because you will be helping someone who hasn't slept because my medication has run out. I haven't known peace. Please help me.
verification. GFM. PayPal
if anyone's able to donate, please do so. regardless, please reblog this, so more people can help. if you are able to donate, please do so through paypal. thank you.
$1,521 raised of $7K
[22%]
The genocide in Palestine 🇵🇸 is still happening and the people in Palestine still need support so if you can donate PLEASE DO!!!! Anything helps!!!!
If you don't share this post, then examine your humanity. I suffer from severe depression and obsessive-compulsive disorder, and I haven't been able to take my medication because I haven't received donations to buy it. I am also currently suffering from malnutrition due to my illness.
Ignoring this will cost me my life. I swear to God I am mentally ill, and because of my illness, I have stopped eating. If anyone is able to donate, God will bless you because you will be helping someone who hasn't slept because my medication has run out. I haven't known peace. Please help me.
verification. GFM. PayPal
if anyone's able to donate, please do so. regardless, please reblog this, so more people can help. if you are able to donate, please do so through paypal. thank you.
$1,521 raised of $7K
[22%]
The genocide in Palestine 🇵🇸 is still happening and the people in Palestine still need support so if you can donate PLEASE DO!!!! Anything helps!!!!
Everything changed the day Amira was born. The world outside was collapsing — bombs, dust, screams, and fear. Yet inside a small room, by the dim light of a single candle, a new life began. While others were running for shelter, I was holding my newborn daughter, trembling, crying, trying to believe that something so pure could still exist in a place like Gaza. I named her Amira, because I wanted her to feel like a child of life —not a child of war.
A year has passed since that night, but nothing has really changed Our house is still rubble, our streets still carry the smell of smoke, and the sky still echoes with sounds that make Amira flinch in her sleep. She has just turned one. She’s learning to walk, holding my finger with her tiny hand, laughing at the smallest things — as if she doesn’t see the destruction around her. She doesn’t know the word “loss.” She never met her father, but when she smiles, I see him there. Sometimes I watch her sleeping, and I wonder what kind of world she will grow up in — whether she will ever know what peace feels like, what home smells like. And yet, when she opens her eyes in the morning and says “mama,” everything becomes bearable again. I want to rebuild our home. Not just for the walls — but for her future. For Amira to have a small room, a safe place to dream, a life that belongs to her, not to war. I’m not asking for much. Only for a chance to give her a beginning filled with warmth instead of fear
My name is Saja. I am a mother, a wife, and just one of many women in Gaza trying to hold on — to hope, to my family, and to a life that no
A Mother’s Message
To everyone reading this — thank you for listening to our story. Your kindness means more than words. Every share, every message, every donation — it all helps me rebuild not just a house, but a future for Amira. From the heart of Gaza, from a mother learning to hope again — we will live. And I will make sure my daughter grows up in a world that knows love more than war.
Everything changed the day Amira was born. The world outside was collapsing — bombs, dust, screams, and fear. Yet inside a small room, by the dim light of a single candle, a new life began. While others were running for shelter, I was holding my newborn daughter, trembling, crying, trying to believe that something so pure could still exist in a place like Gaza. I named her Amira, because I wanted her to feel like a child of life —not a child of war.
A year has passed since that night, but nothing has really changed Our house is still rubble, our streets still carry the smell of smoke, and the sky still echoes with sounds that make Amira flinch in her sleep. She has just turned one. She’s learning to walk, holding my finger with her tiny hand, laughing at the smallest things — as if she doesn’t see the destruction around her. She doesn’t know the word “loss.” She never met her father, but when she smiles, I see him there. Sometimes I watch her sleeping, and I wonder what kind of world she will grow up in — whether she will ever know what peace feels like, what home smells like. And yet, when she opens her eyes in the morning and says “mama,” everything becomes bearable again. I want to rebuild our home. Not just for the walls — but for her future. For Amira to have a small room, a safe place to dream, a life that belongs to her, not to war. I’m not asking for much. Only for a chance to give her a beginning filled with warmth instead of fear
My name is Saja. I am a mother, a wife, and just one of many women in Gaza trying to hold on — to hope, to my family, and to a life that no
A Mother’s Message
To everyone reading this — thank you for listening to our story. Your kindness means more than words. Every share, every message, every donation — it all helps me rebuild not just a house, but a future for Amira. From the heart of Gaza, from a mother learning to hope again — we will live. And I will make sure my daughter grows up in a world that knows love more than war.
Everything changed the day Amira was born. The world outside was collapsing — bombs, dust, screams, and fear. Yet inside a small room, by the dim light of a single candle, a new life began. While others were running for shelter, I was holding my newborn daughter, trembling, crying, trying to believe that something so pure could still exist in a place like Gaza. I named her Amira, because I wanted her to feel like a child of life —not a child of war.
A year has passed since that night, but nothing has really changed Our house is still rubble, our streets still carry the smell of smoke, and the sky still echoes with sounds that make Amira flinch in her sleep. She has just turned one. She’s learning to walk, holding my finger with her tiny hand, laughing at the smallest things — as if she doesn’t see the destruction around her. She doesn’t know the word “loss.” She never met her father, but when she smiles, I see him there. Sometimes I watch her sleeping, and I wonder what kind of world she will grow up in — whether she will ever know what peace feels like, what home smells like. And yet, when she opens her eyes in the morning and says “mama,” everything becomes bearable again. I want to rebuild our home. Not just for the walls — but for her future. For Amira to have a small room, a safe place to dream, a life that belongs to her, not to war. I’m not asking for much. Only for a chance to give her a beginning filled with warmth instead of fear
My name is Saja. I am a mother, a wife, and just one of many women in Gaza trying to hold on — to hope, to my family, and to a life that no
A Mother’s Message
To everyone reading this — thank you for listening to our story. Your kindness means more than words. Every share, every message, every donation — it all helps me rebuild not just a house, but a future for Amira. From the heart of Gaza, from a mother learning to hope again — we will live. And I will make sure my daughter grows up in a world that knows love more than war.
Everything changed the day Amira was born. The world outside was collapsing — bombs, dust, screams, and fear. Yet inside a small room, by the dim light of a single candle, a new life began. While others were running for shelter, I was holding my newborn daughter, trembling, crying, trying to believe that something so pure could still exist in a place like Gaza. I named her Amira, because I wanted her to feel like a child of life —not a child of war.
A year has passed since that night, but nothing has really changed Our house is still rubble, our streets still carry the smell of smoke, and the sky still echoes with sounds that make Amira flinch in her sleep. She has just turned one. She’s learning to walk, holding my finger with her tiny hand, laughing at the smallest things — as if she doesn’t see the destruction around her. She doesn’t know the word “loss.” She never met her father, but when she smiles, I see him there. Sometimes I watch her sleeping, and I wonder what kind of world she will grow up in — whether she will ever know what peace feels like, what home smells like. And yet, when she opens her eyes in the morning and says “mama,” everything becomes bearable again. I want to rebuild our home. Not just for the walls — but for her future. For Amira to have a small room, a safe place to dream, a life that belongs to her, not to war. I’m not asking for much. Only for a chance to give her a beginning filled with warmth instead of fear
My name is Saja. I am a mother, a wife, and just one of many women in Gaza trying to hold on — to hope, to my family, and to a life that no
A Mother’s Message
To everyone reading this — thank you for listening to our story. Your kindness means more than words. Every share, every message, every donation — it all helps me rebuild not just a house, but a future for Amira. From the heart of Gaza, from a mother learning to hope again — we will live. And I will make sure my daughter grows up in a world that knows love more than war.
Everything changed the day Amira was born. The world outside was collapsing — bombs, dust, screams, and fear. Yet inside a small room, by the dim light of a single candle, a new life began. While others were running for shelter, I was holding my newborn daughter, trembling, crying, trying to believe that something so pure could still exist in a place like Gaza. I named her Amira, because I wanted her to feel like a child of life —not a child of war.
A year has passed since that night, but nothing has really changed Our house is still rubble, our streets still carry the smell of smoke, and the sky still echoes with sounds that make Amira flinch in her sleep. She has just turned one. She’s learning to walk, holding my finger with her tiny hand, laughing at the smallest things — as if she doesn’t see the destruction around her. She doesn’t know the word “loss.” She never met her father, but when she smiles, I see him there. Sometimes I watch her sleeping, and I wonder what kind of world she will grow up in — whether she will ever know what peace feels like, what home smells like. And yet, when she opens her eyes in the morning and says “mama,” everything becomes bearable again. I want to rebuild our home. Not just for the walls — but for her future. For Amira to have a small room, a safe place to dream, a life that belongs to her, not to war. I’m not asking for much. Only for a chance to give her a beginning filled with warmth instead of fear
My name is Saja. I am a mother, a wife, and just one of many women in Gaza trying to hold on — to hope, to my family, and to a life that no
A Mother’s Message
To everyone reading this — thank you for listening to our story. Your kindness means more than words. Every share, every message, every donation — it all helps me rebuild not just a house, but a future for Amira. From the heart of Gaza, from a mother learning to hope again — we will live. And I will make sure my daughter grows up in a world that knows love more than war.
