Some jay lockscreens that actually fit the screen this timeđ absolutely not requested but the world (and I) needs more of him and I'm ready to provideâąïž
Itâs hard to find words when life becomes a daily battle for the basics. I am writing to you from Gaza, where every day is a test of endurance. Between the scarcity of food, clean water, and the skyrocketing cost of living, we are struggling just to keep going.
Iâm not just asking for help; Iâm asking for a chance to breathe, to provide for my family, and to survive these harsh conditions. Any supportâno matter how smallâmakes a world of difference to us right now. If you canât donate, please reblog this post. Your voice helps our story reach those who can help.
Speaking of books it's been a while since I've seen one of these posts going around & I'm curious so everyone could you tell me what you are reading rn in the tags please
My name is Mohammed, and I am the guardian of a small universe that is slowly collapsing. When you see a "fundraiser," you see a number. When I see my family, I see:
My parents:Â Carrying 60 years of memories in a world that wants to erase them.
My late brother's children:Â Two orphans who look at me for the father they lost.
Shaimaa & her husband:Â Fighting two warsâone outside, and one inside his body (Synovial Sarcoma cancer).
My wife & children, Asma, Fatima, Omar:Â And their little ones who donât understand why the sky is always screaming.
We are 19 souls trying to survive the impossible. Every reblog is a prayer heard. Every donation is a brick in the wall of our protection.
đ [Support our survival on GoFundMe here]
â Vetted by @gazavetters (#533) · â Verified by @bilal-sala7 (#36)
Everything changed the day Amira was born.
The world outside was collapsing â 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 ânot a child of war.
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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.
Sheâs learning to walk, holding my finger with her tiny hand, laughing at the smallest things â as if she doesnât see the destruction around her.
She doesnât know the word âloss.â
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 â 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 âmama,â everything becomes bearable again.
I want to rebuild our home.
Not just for the walls â 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.
Iâm 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 â to hope, to my family, and to a life that no
 A Motherâs Message
To everyone reading this â thank you for listening to our story.
Your kindness means more than words.
Every share, every message, every donation â 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 â
we will live. And I will make sure my daughter grows up in a world that knows love more than war.
Hello, my name is Nadin. Iâm from Gaza. Iâm a graphic design graduate, a wifeâand now, a mother.
I finished my design studies just before the war began. I had dreams of starting a small studio, of creating art that told stories. I used to think about colors and fonts and the future.
Then, the war came. And the future became something we tried to hold onto, moment by moment.
On October 22, 2023, I learned I was pregnant when a missile destroyed my husbandâs family home, killing 25 membersâhis mother, siblings, nieces and nephewsâentire branches of our family in seconds.
We were displaced twice. Everything was goneâhome, safety, routine, rest.
A few weeks later, I gave birth to our daughter. There was no crib, no celebrationânot even stillness. But she arrived, quietly and beautifully. In her eyes I saw something I hadnât felt in weeks: life that still wanted to grow.
Now, our days are shaped by decisions that could dismantle the future we are trying to build together.
Today, Israelâs government is discussing plans for a full military occupation of the Gaza Strip, including Gaza City and southern regions. The stated aim: to eliminate Hamas and later hand governing control to allied Arab forcesânot Israelâbut with no clear path to peace or normalcy.
The humanitarian fallout is devastating. More than 61,000 Palestinians have died in this war; hunger and malnutrition are rising sharply. Hospitals in north Gaza have shut down, and 193 people have now died of starvation, nearly half of them children.
Aid remains blocked, water is scarce, and many risk dying of hunger or disease long before future promises arrive.
We Donât Know What Comes Next
Thereâs no clear path forwardâonly uncertainty for our daughterâs life and our ability to survive another day.
My name is Nadin, and Iâm a mother from Gaza.
How You Can Help
Iâm asking for supportânot for comfort, but for survival:
Help us meet basic needs so we can breathe, heal, and preserve a world for our daughter.
Support us as I try to stand again on my own feetâeven a glimmer of stability matters.
If youâve read this far, thank you. If you can giveâthank you. If you canâtâjust sharing this post is a lifeline I will never forget.
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