osama-alhallq

From Gaza | Sharing our daily reality | Family in need of safety https://gofund.me/b0a956432

[osama-alhallq]

Last night, I held my brother's hand until dawn didn't come.

Not because he was sick. Because every time a plane flew over, his eyes would go wide and he'd stop breathing. He's 6. He asked me, "Why do the sky people want us dead?"

I had no answer.

You wake up in Berlin, Paris, London – and you worry about traffic, about what coffee to order, about a deadline, about your ex's new story.

I wake up in Gaza. I check my fingers. Are they still there? I count my family. Are they still breathing?

This is not politics. This is not religion. This is a mother who hasn't slept in months because she's afraid her children will turn into pieces of flesh if she closes her eyes.

We don't want your pity. We want your action.

Winter is coming. There is no glass in our windows. No blankets. No medicine.

I am not asking you to save Gaza. I am asking you to save one family.

One meal. One blanket. One antibiotic.

The link to make changes: https://gofund.me/b0a956432

If every person who reads this gives $5 – just $5 – my little brother might sleep tonight.

Please. Don't scroll away. Don't look at this and then watch a cat video.

Stop. Feel. Give.

Reblog. Share. Do not let this die in the feed.

🇵🇸 – From a place where even the birds have left.

[osama-alhallq]

Our Fundraiser Was Shut Down Without Warning

I knew something was wrong the moment I opened my phone.

No notifications. No updates. Just silence.

I typed the link to our fundraiser.

It didn’t load.

I refreshed. Again. And again.

Nothing.

Then I saw it.

“This campaign is no longer available.”

My heart dropped.

This wasn’t just a page. This was our lifeline. Our only source of hope. The thin line between survival and collapse.

And just like that… it was gone.

No email. No warning. No explanation.

Just erased.

At first, I tried to convince myself it was a mistake. A technical issue. Something temporary.

But deep down, I already knew.

So I messaged him.

The man in Canada who created the fundraiser for us. The one we trusted. The one who held everything in his hands.

I waited.

Minutes felt like hours.

Then his reply came.

Three words.

“I closed it.”

I stared at the screen, reading it again and again, hoping it would somehow change.

It didn’t.

No explanation. No discussion. No reason.

Just a decision — made without us — to cut off the only support we had.

In that moment, something inside me broke.

Not just because the money was gone.

But because trust was gone.

From the very beginning, we gave him everything — our story, our pain, our hope. We believed he was helping us survive.

Instead, he ended it.

No warning. No apology.

And then… he blocked me.

Just like that, we were shut out completely.

Yes, we managed to receive most of the donations before this happened. And for that, I thank God.

But the final payment — the one we were counting on — never came.

And now, everything has stopped.

Today, I’m not just scared.

I’m shaken.

Because when you reach out to the world at your weakest point, you don’t expect the person closest to your hope to be the one who takes it away.

But even now… we are still here.

Still breathing. Still holding on.

Alhamdulillah, no matter what happens.

Hope is fragile — but it’s not gone.

So I’m asking you… if you’re reading this, if you feel even a moment of connection to our story — please stand with us again.

We found a new way to receive donations through a relative.

You can help here:

HELP US HERE NEW GOFOUNDME

We are not asking for much.

Just enough to survive. To keep hunger away. To keep fear from taking over our home.

Every small act matters.

Every bit of support reminds us that not all hope is lost.

Thank you to everyone who has stood with us before.

And please forgive any confusion — our situation is more difficult than words can fully explain.

Please keep us in your prayers.

Because right now…

you are all we have left.

[osama-alhallq]

This is my family.

not a headline. not numbers. just us.

my name is osama. i’m 20, from gaza. this image is part of our story — what our life looks like now.

my father was injured in a bombing. he can barely walk. my mother is taking care of all of us. we lost our home. we are displaced. we eat one meal a day.

i write about our life because i don’t want us to disappear quietly.

if you can help, even a small amount makes a real difference for us. if you can’t donate, i understand.

but please — reblog this. share our story. let more people see us.

sometimes one share reaches the person who changes everything.

donation link:

https://gofund.me/f16aa05f2

[osama-alhallq]

My father came home to rest one afternoon. That was the last normal moment of his life.

My father came home on August 30, 2025 after a long day of work.

Nothing unusual. Just tired.

He told us he’d rest a bit, then join us later at my grandfather’s house. My mother and siblings had already left. He stayed behind alone.

He ate lunch. Lay down. Closed his eyes.

That’s all.

Then the house was gone.

He says the sound didn’t feel like an explosion. More like the sky collapsing. The walls, the ceiling — everything fell on him at once. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t understand what was happening.

He woke up in a hospital.

Not at home. Not in his bed. Just bright lights, people shouting, and pain everywhere.

He asked about the house. No one answered directly. But he understood.

It was gone. Completely gone.

His work. His routine. The place he built for us. All of it ended in a second.

He survived, but his feet were crushed. He can barely walk now.

I think about that a lot — how an ordinary afternoon can divide a life into “before” and “after.”

He still tries to act like a father. Still worries about us. Still asks if we’ve eaten.

We eat once a day now.

I’m sharing this because I don’t know how else to make people understand what “loss” actually looks like here. It’s not numbers. It’s not headlines.

It’s someone lying down for a nap… and waking up to a completely different life.

If you want to help or just understand more, I’ve been writing about our situation here: https://gofund.me/f16aa05f2

If you can’t donate, that’s okay. Even reading this means something.

A father from Gaza. Still here.

[osama-alhallq]

Help me rebuild what i lost.

my name is osama alhallq. i'm 21 years old. i'm a writer and graphic designer from gaza.

before the war, i had a plan. i was going to build something with my skills — design, writing, storytelling. i had started university. i had ideas.

then october 7th happened. and in one night, the plan disappeared.

my father was bombed inside our home. he survived, but his feet were crushed. he can barely walk. my mother is holding four children together in a place where flour costs $70 a bag and we eat once a day.

i lost most of my hearing across three wars. the first time i was 10 years old.

but i didn't stop.

i write. every day. from a borrowed phone. with one meal in my stomach and no guarantee anyone will read it. i write essays about what $25 buys in gaza. about the last normal day before the war. about my father's watch ticking under the rubble. about my mother making noise in the kitchen so her deaf son would know she was there.

i am not asking you to save us.

i am asking you to see us.

donate if you can. reblog if you can't. leave a dot if that's all you have.

every single one reaches us. every single one matters

https://gofund.me/f16aa05f2 😭❤️❤️

inktr.ee/osamaalhallq 🙏🙏🙏🙏

[osama-alhallq]

three siblings. one dream.

in gaza, even education feels out of reach.

they study with almost nothing, yet never give up.

they deserve a real chance — not just survival.

if you can help, you’re giving them hope for a future.

Support us donate if you can.

[osama-alhallq]

Behind every "quiet" day is a loud, impossible struggle. The bombs may be silent for a moment, but the prices are screaming.

In Gaza, scarcity is a slow violence.

We are not asking for a luxury. This campaign is our only kitchen table. Our only pharmacy. Our only chance to exist until tomorrow.

You might think $15 is a small gesture.

To you, it’s a coffee.

To us, it’s a miracle. It is a meal we didn’t have. It is the medicine that stops the shaking. It is the difference between a night of hunger and a night of sleep.

We are $745 away from our next goal.

Help us here

If you cannot donate, please reblog. Don’t let our story become a whisper in the dark. Every reblog is a hand held out to us.

Hope is heavy. Help us carry it.

[osama-alhallq]

we are $6 away from $3,000. six dollars. i started this campaign alone from gaza, with a borrowed phone, one meal a day, and a father who can't walk. 53 people believed in us enough to donate. will you be number 54? not because $6 changes the world. but because reaching $3,000 tells my family that 54 real people saw us and chose to show up. that number matters more than the money tonight.

Donate to Wesam Sharaf and his family in Gaza, organized by Saleh Shan

Before October 7th, we lived a peaceful life, filled with hope and dreams for the futur… Saleh Shan needs your support for Wesam Sharaf and

[osama-alhallq]

my little sister asked for shawarma today. i didn't answer her. because chicken breast is $25 a kilogram. because we haven't had a real meal in 10 days. because we eat once a day now and go to sleep hungry. she doesn't know this. she just knows she's hungry and she misses normal food. i know everything else.

https://gofund.me/f16aa05f2

[osama-alhallq]

i have been trying to reach someone who will listen for months now.

not someone famous. not someone with millions of followers.

just someone. anyone.

i post every day. i write essays. i leave comments on strangers' articles at midnight. i send messages to accounts who never reply. i translate my family's pain into english so the world can understand it. i do all of this from a borrowed phone, on internet that costs money we don't have, in a place where even staying connected is a luxury we can barely afford.

and still.

the donations slow. the silence stretches. and i sit here wondering if anyone is actually reading this or if i am just writing into a void.

i am exhausted. genuinely, deeply exhausted.

not just from the war — though the war is still happening, my father still can't walk, my family still doesn't have enough food, and a real meal here costs over $100.

i am exhausted from asking. from hoping. from trying to make my pain legible to people who scroll past it.

but i am still here. still writing. because what else do i do.

if you have read this far — please don't just keep scrolling.

share this with one person. just one.

or become donor number 50 on our campaign. even $1. not because it changes everything — but because it tells me someone actually saw us. that we are not invisible.

that is all i need tonight. to know someone sees us.

LINKTREE

GOFOUNDME LINK

🇵🇸 osama — gaza

[osama-alhallq]

I know everyone is going through hard times, and if you can’t donate, I truly understand. But please — lend me your voice. A reblog or share can reach someone who can help. Your share might be the reason my family’s life changes. our gofouneme

[osama-alhallq]

I know everyone is going through hard times, and if you can’t donate, I truly understand. But please — lend me your voice. A reblog or share can reach someone who can help. Your share might be the reason my family’s life changes.

[osama-alhallq]

it was an ordinary day. or so i thought.

on august 30, 2025, i came home after a long day of work. my wife and children had already left to visit their grandfather's house. we had agreed i would join them after some rest.

i ate my lunch quietly. i lay down. i closed my eyes.

i didn't know that moment would become the line dividing two lives.

the sound was unlike anything i had ever heard.

it wasn't just an explosion. it felt as if the sky itself had shattered and fallen on top of me. in an instant, the walls that had always protected me became rubble.

i tried to move. to scream. to understand.

but my body was no longer mine.

i was beneath the rubble. between life and death. seconds felt like eternity. then everything faded.

i woke up on a white hospital bed.

i asked about my home. no one answered directly.

i understood from their eyes before their words.

my home was no longer a home.

my work no longer existed.

and my life was no longer the same.

i can barely walk now. my feet were crushed under the rubble. the man who used to make sure everyone at the table had enough to eat cannot stand without pain.

my son osama writes about our family so the world won't forget us.

if this reached you — please don't scroll past a father who is still breathing and still trying.

donate or reblog. a family is asking.

HELP US

FROM MY FATHER VOISE

[osama-alhallq]

My father needs your help to survive

This is my father. He was injured during the ongoing attacks on Gaza. His condition is critical, and we are struggling to access the medical care he urgently needs due to extremely limited resources.

We are doing everything we can to support him, but we cannot do this alone. We are in urgent need of help to secure treatment or a possible medical evacuation.

Any support—sharing this post, connecting us with medical organizations, or any form of assistance—can make a real difference.

Thank you for reading and for standing with us. My link 🙏

[osama-alhallq]

This kitchen no longer exists.

It disappeared with our home when it was destroyed in the war. What you see in this photo might look ordinary, but for us, it wasn’t. It held our daily life — quiet mornings, shared meals, small conversations that made up everything we knew as normal.

Now it’s gone. But the memory of it isn’t.

We’re not asking for everything back. We know that’s impossible. We’re only hoping to rebuild a small part of what was lost — a new kitchen, a space that can hold us again, where new memories can begin.

Something simple. Something human.

HELP US HERE

[osama-alhallq]

Eid Mubarak from Gaza 🌙

This year feels quieter than it should. There’s no home to go back to. My father still struggles to walk, and my mother made cookies with whatever we had left — just to hold on to something that feels like Eid.

We’re missing a lot. More than I can really explain.

But we’re together. And somehow, we’re still here.

For today, that has to be enough.

If you’re celebrating, hold it gently. Think of the people who can’t.

If you want to help, even a little: HELP US

[osama-alhallq]

This is what our children are drawing.

not houses. not suns. not families holding hands.

bombs. ruins. tents.

this is what happens when a generation grows up inside a war. their imagination didn't disappear — it just learned a different language.

we are still here. we are not statistics. we are human beings who need you more than ever.

donate or reblog. a mother and four children are asking.

HELP US Plz 🇵🇸