✨Soliyannah ✨ Writer of shadows, secrets, and untold stories. Escaping reality one word at a time. Lover of Urdu poetry, dark mysteries, and emotions that linger. Work in progress—both me and my stories.
Hello, my name is Nadin. I’m from Gaza. I’m a graphic design graduate, a wife—and 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 husband’s family home, killing 25 members—his mother, siblings, nieces and nephews—entire branches of our family in seconds.
We were displaced twice. Everything was gone—home, safety, routine, rest.
A few weeks later, I gave birth to our daughter. There was no crib, no celebration—not even stillness. But she arrived, quietly and beautifully. In her eyes I saw something I hadn’t 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, Israel’s 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 forces—not Israel—but 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 Don’t Know What Comes Next
There’s no clear path forward—only uncertainty for our daughter’s life and our ability to survive another day.
My name is Nadin, and I’m a mother from Gaza.
How You Can Help
I’m asking for support—not 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 feet—even a glimmer of stability matters.
If you’ve read this far, thank you. If you can give—thank you. If you can’t—just sharing this post is a lifeline I will never forget.
I’m Saja from Gaza… and this is my story under war
My name is Saja. I’m a woman from Gaza, married, and a mother to a little girl who still doesn’t understand why we don’t have bread or why we live in constant darkness.
I used to study online, hoping to build a better future for my family. But the war has taken that away.
The internet is gone. Electricity is unstable. And now, even food has started disappearing from our homes.
Flour is incredibly scarce, and prices are unbelievably high.
We wait in long lines, hoping for just a small bag of flour—and often leave with nothing.
Everything has become a struggle... even the simplest things: bread, clean water, and safety.
We try to stay strong, to hold onto the little we have, but life in Gaza today needs a miracle.
I write these words with a heavy heart—not seeking pity, but because I truly need your help.
I just want to continue my education, provide food for my daughter, and protect the little hope I have left.
Your presence, your support—even a kind word—means the world to us.
Every donation, every share, every prayer makes a real difference in my life.
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
Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, to everyone who sees us, supports us, or simply prays for us.You are our only light in this darkness.
“Mumma, my dream is to be like you,”
said the little girl, bright and true.
Smiling wide, her eyes did gleam—
unaware of what grown-ups dream.
Years have passed, that girl’s grown now,
trying to be a better woman somehow.
But “better” — what does that even mean?
She writes to Mumma, unseen and serene.
She spent her days, lost in thought,
wondering what a “better woman” is, or not.
Is she someone who cares for her home and kin?
Or one who earns, and still tucks love within?
Is she someone soft, who speaks with grace—
or someone strong, who stands her place?
Is she someone who loves everyone,
yet forgets herself when the day is done?
Her mother replied, her words so clear,
“My dear, I know what ‘better’ means, come near.
It’s not the woman who gives away her whole life,
but the one who learns to love herself right.
She shares her love with family and child,
and builds a life gentle, yet wild.
She gives her time, her care, her heart—
but only after she’s made herself a part.
For you can’t pour love from an empty soul,
a better woman first makes herself whole.
💔🇵🇸 My Daughter Was Born Under Bombs — I'm Just Trying to Keep Her Alive
My name is Abdulmajid.
I got married one month before the war.
Those were beautiful days — full of hope, love, and simple dreams.
I dreamed of a small home, a quiet family, and a baby girl I could hold without fear.
But the war came…
Suddenly. Brutally.
My mother was killed.
My brother was killed.
Children in my family were taken by the bombs.
My home was destroyed.
And my work stopped completely.
Then… in the middle of this nightmare, my baby girl was born.
A tiny soul, innocent, unaware of the war.
She cries from hunger, from cold, from the sounds of bombs shaking what’s left of our walls.
Today, I’m a father with almost nothing…
Fighting every day to find flour, milk, or even a small meal to feed my child.
Prices are sky-high — a single 25kg bag of flour can cost $800.
There is no work. No income. No safety. No stability.
I write this from under siege, hoping my heart will reach yours.
My name is Abedmajed Elderawi, and I live in Gaza with what remains of my once large and loving family.
Even $1 can make a difference.
It can feed a child, buy milk, or bring a moment of peace.
Be the heart that reaches Gaza. Be the hand that saves.
📌 Please share this post. Let our voices be heard — not buried under rubble.
Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #537 )✅️
okay, fair. but… what if someone does like your writing? even better, what if someone LOVES it? what if one person — just one person — finds your story and it makes their entire week? what if they love it so much it brings them to tears when they finish it? what if your writing becomes their safe space, a place they come back to when they’re feeling down? what if they love your writing so much they talk about it to their friends or get inspired to write their own story?
what if… your story makes someone feel seen, makes their life a little brighter?
The same morning
I tried to wake up-
Wake up from sleep
from my bed,
from my past,
but I can't-
The morning is tough its harsh
my body is frigid
crouching my heart tried to wake up
but I can't-
I don't know what happened
struggling to take breath
I tried to scream
to call someone for help
but I can't-
Remembering My past
my sins
my bad deed
the pain in my body didn't let me live
but the sins
The sins are not letting me stand in front of Al-Malik
I want to beg
but I can't-
My past
Standing in the alley
without fear I looked at zina
my eyes crawling over her skin like insects-
my creepiness.
I want to ask forgiveness
but I can't-
My past
When I hear the words of Al-Gaffur
I ignored
I ignored thinking it's fake
I ignored the guidance
I ignore the warning
It's bad
I want to hear those words again
but I cant-
My breath struggles
My brain crumbles
I wish I would just erase my sin
But I CAN'T-
Nature, society, people, their behavious and everyday life inspire me. Writing helps me explore these observations and share them in a way that others can connect with.
The hands that touched me—
walking on the streets,
wrapped in modesty,
away from fragrance.
The steps I can only hear
are mine.
The hands that touched me—
walking on the streets,
wrapped in modesty,
away from fragrance.
The steps I can only hear
are mine and HIS.
WHO?
The hands that touched me—
a footstep near,
the moment felt like thunder.
The insects around me
swarmed like claws.
FROZEN.
WHAT DO I DO?
WHERE TO GO?
NOW I AM IN MY OWN SAFE PLACE—
yet the walls drip like a creek,
silent water carrying
a past of unatoned sins.
The hands that touched me—
my feet stopped.
The alley swallowed silence.
FEAR.
BREATHLESS.
NAKED.
For one precise moment—
I thought.
I ran.
I ran as fast as I could—
searching for people,
hiding from people.
The hands that touched me—
RUN.
RUN.
RUN.
Footsteps behind me—
stopped.
Only mine remain.
The echo of him
is gone.
My home window —
the window in the garden,
sitting at the corner,
the echo I can hear,
dust particles holding my name,
roaming in the air.
The window of my house holds —
sunlight falling on my soul,
me feeling like a princess,
the beam of light painting me in its colour.
The window my house holds —
taking the lantern in my hand,
I go to the pond.
The moon reflects in the water,
but oh! it’s a new moon day.
The winds start blowing.
The key to freeing my hair —
maybe like him, the wind falls for me.
I am not beautiful,
but this is beautiful.
It’s not self-obsession;
it’s him who made me fall in love with me.
A magical object,
showing the image of me—
the real me.
It reveals the truth,
a face I cannot escape,
a reminder of who I really am.
The unknown person,
from another world.
I am a writer. Not a content-producing machine.
I am a writer. Not a content-producing machine.
I am a writer. Not a content-producing machine.
It’s okay if I don’t have time to write.
It’s okay if a chapter is delayed.
It’s okay if my words come out messy.
It’s okay if I need to take a break.
It’s okay if I don’t update every week, every month, or even every year.
My value as a writer is not measured by how fast I post.
My worth is not defined by kudos, bookmarks, or comments.
I am allowed to be slow.
I am allowed to rest.
I am allowed to write for joy, not for an algorithm.
“The sky is beautiful, isn’t it?”
his words still ring in my head.
The pain is sharp.
The sky was always beautiful —
but without you
it became an endless ache.
“Let’s dance in the rain,”
his hands on me felt like home.
His laugh, his smile,
his side-cheek dimple —
now shadows I cannot see.
He promised to build a home with me,
a home of happiness.
He gave me a house,
I would make it a home with him.
But now the house remains
and the home has vanished.
He vanished.
His soul left my body.
Nowhere is the land
where I could see him.
He promised to stay with me till death —
the last promise he kept,
the one I never wanted.
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