This is a collection of links to various posts concerning fundraisers I've vetted and instructions on how to submit fundraisers to me. These are primarily ones for Ghazzan families although some fundraisers for Sudanese families are also listed (I'm more familiar with my own country's politics and dialect and am more capable of vetting fundraisers for Palestinians as a result). Each post will have a time stamp indicating the latest date of update. And fundraisers will have colour-coded disclaimers according to the particularities of their case.
I know that people do not like clicking on links or navigating between posts, but please actually look through these posts and choose a fundraiser to donate to. Please.
Instructions on how to submit a fundraiser. (for those not Ghazzan)
تعليمات لتقديم طلب توثيق و نشر حملات التبرعات الخاصة بالغزاويين و عائلاتهم (للغزاويين فقط)
ملاحظة خاصة نشر الحملات.
List of fundraisers for my direct contacts from Ghazzah & Sudan. - PRIORITY.
Vetted family evacuation fundraisers list 1. - Particularities Listed.
Vetted family evacuation fundraisers list 2. - Particularities Listed.
Unvetted but highly likely legitimate fundraisers.
summary: Logan drew the short straw on having to dress up as Santa for the young students at the mansion. Except one of them sees Santa kissing you.
word count: 4.6k+
pairing: logan howlett x fem!reader
notes: once again, this is a bit late, but i had went out with my friends who i haven't seen in person for a few years to catch up. anyways, hopefully it's okay!
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, jean/scott, logan and scott are frenemies? idk they mess with each other, fluff, this is kinda just a crack fic lol, not proofread
12 days of christmas masterlist
The idea is pitched like it’s nothing, like it won’t immediately ruin someone’s week.
Everyone’s gathered in the rec room because that’s where decisions like this always happen, the ones that technically fall under “team responsibility” but somehow never feel evenly distributed. There’s tinsel draped along the railing near the stairs, lights already twinkling in corners even though it’s barely afternoon, and the faint smell of pine drifting in from the massive tree Hank insisted on hauling in himself. The younger students are buzzing all over the mansion, and the energy has that unmistakable pre-holiday edge to it, the kind that means something chaotic is about to be decided.
“So,” Scott says, clapping his hands once like a man about to assign homework, “the kids really want Santa this year.”
Logan snorts from his chair, boots kicked up on the coffee table. “They always want Santa. Doesn’t mean we gotta traumatize ‘em.”
You’re standing near the couch, arms crossed, already sensing where this is going. Jean’s perched on the armrest beside Scott, trying and failing to hide her smile, while Hank fusses with a clipboard he absolutely did not need for this conversation.
“The younger ones have been talking about it for weeks,” Jean adds, voice sweet and entirely too innocent. “It would mean a lot to them.”
Logan shoots her a look. “You sayin’ that like you already picked someone.”
“No,” Scott replies quickly, and that alone makes Logan’s eyes narrow. “We thought we’d be fair about it.”
That’s when Hank clears his throat and produces a handful of straws from behind his back, all cut to slightly different lengths. The room goes quiet for half a second, and then Logan slowly lowers his boots to the floor. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he says flatly.
Hank beams. “A literal drawing of the short straw! Democratic, simple, and delightfully festive.”
Logan turns his head toward you, brows raised. “You seein’ this?”
You bite the inside of your cheek, already smiling despite yourself. “I’m seeing it, yeah. Can’t say I’m surprised.”
“Traitor,” he mutters, though there’s no real heat behind it. Still, he straightens in his chair like he’s bracing for impact.
Scott steps forward first, because of course he does. “We’ll keep it between the guys. One straw each.”
“Absolutely not,” Logan replies immediately. “I am not squeezin’ into some red suit while you stand around laughin’.”
Jean lifts a brow. “If you don’t want to draw, Logan, you’re welcome to volunteer instead.”
He glares at her, then at the straws. “You’re enjoyin’ this way too much.”
Hank offers the bundle, and one by one they step up. Scott draws and, predictably, his straw is long. He barely even tries to hide his smug little smile. Hank goes next, then Kurt, then a reluctant Bobby who looks far too amused by the whole thing.
Finally, it’s Logan’s turn.
He hesitates, fingers hovering like the straws might bite him, then snatches one with a scowl. For a second, he just stares at it, jaw tight, like sheer willpower might make it grow.
It doesn’t.
The straw is painfully, undeniably short.
The room explodes. Scott laughs first, sharp and unrepentant, leaning back like he’s just been handed the best gift of the season. “Wow. Fate really has a sense of humor.”
Jean covers her mouth, though her eyes are bright. “Oh my god.”
Hank clasps his hands together, delighted. “Excellent! I’ll start tailoring immediately. The suit will need reinforcement in the shoulders, of course.”
Logan looks like he might actually combust. He pushes to his feet, the chair scraping loudly behind him. “You did this on purpose.”
Scott grins. “Logan, I didn’t even cut the straws.”
“You didn’t have to,” Logan shoots back. He turns to you again, accusatory. “You laughin’ at me too?”
You shrug, trying and failing to keep your grin in check. “I mean, you did agree to draw.”
He scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “Unbelievable.”
Despite the grumbling, though, he doesn’t walk out. He stays planted there, arms crossed, glaring at the offending piece of straw like it personally betrayed him. Underneath all the bluster, you can see it, the familiar sense of duty he never quite admits to. He won’t let the kids down, no matter how much he complains.
Scott claps him on the shoulder, entirely too pleased with himself. “Cheer up. You’ll make a great Santa.”
Logan bares his teeth in something that’s not quite a smile. “Say that again, Summers, and I’m puttin’ coal in your stocking for life.”
The room fills with laughter again, and as the noise swells, you catch Logan’s eye. He rolls his, then gives you the smallest, resigned shake of his head, like this is his lot and he’s already accepted it.
Somewhere upstairs, kids are laughing, completely unaware that Santa Claus has just been decided by the cruelest straw in existence.
By the time the day of the event actually arrives, the mansion barely feels like the same place.
Garlands wind along the banisters, lights glow from every available surface, and the air hums with that barely contained excitement that only children can generate when they know something special is coming. The younger students are herded toward the main hall in loose, chattering groups, their voices echoing down the corridors as they speculate wildly about reindeer, elves, and whether Santa knows about their report cards. Somewhere near the ceiling, faint flakes of snow drift lazily down, courtesy of Ororo, who insists it adds atmosphere and absolutely does not count as “overdoing it.”
You’re stationed near the side of the hall, helping direct traffic and trying to keep kids from sprinting outright, when you hear the unmistakable sound of boots stomping with purpose from behind a set of doors usually reserved for storage.
Then the doors swing open and Logan steps out in full Santa regalia, and for a split second, your brain refuses to process it properly.
The suit is classic red and white, heavy-looking and clearly tailored to survive being worn by someone with adamantium bones and very little patience. The beard sits thick across his jaw, blending surprisingly well with his real hair, and the hat is pulled low enough that it shadows his eyes. He looks uncomfortable, irritated, and profoundly unamused, but also… ridiculous in a way you didn’t know was possible.
You bite down hard on your lip. Logan’s gaze snaps to you immediately, sharp even beneath the costume. “Don’t,” he warns.
“I didn’t say anything,” you reply, hands raised innocently, though your shoulders are already shaking.
He exhales through his nose. “You’re thinkin’ it.”
“Everyone is thinking it,” you say, finally letting yourself smile. “You look… festive.”
He grunts. “If one person cracks a joke, I’m leavin’.”
Behind him, Hank adjusts the trim of the coat with a practiced eye. “Nonsense. You look splendid, Logan. Very traditional.”
“Yeah, well, I feel like I’m wearin’ a rug,” Logan mutters, tugging at the cuffs. “And this beard itches.”
“You’ll survive,” you tell him, stepping closer to straighten the crooked pom-pom on his hat. He stills automatically when you do, eyes flicking down to you, expression softening just a fraction before he remembers himself.
“Kids are already waitin’,” he says, gruff. “Let’s get this over with.”
The moment he steps into the hall, everything changes. The chatter dies down, replaced by a ripple of gasps that spread through the crowd like a wave. A few kids freeze mid-step, eyes going wide, while others immediately start bouncing in place, pointing excitedly.
“It’s Santa!” someone yells, and that’s all it takes.
They swarm him. Logan stiffens at first, shoulders tense as kids crowd around his legs, tugging at the hem of his coat and babbling all at once. For half a second, you think he might actually panic, but then he exhales slowly, visibly grounding himself, and crouches down so he’s closer to their level. “All right,” he says, voice deeper than usual thanks to the beard, “one at a time, bub.”
It works. Somehow, it works. The kids laugh, instantly charmed by the gravelly voice and the way Santa calls everyone “kid” or “sport” like it’s the most natural thing in the world. One brave little girl reaches up and pokes the beard.
“Are you real?” she asks solemnly.
Logan pauses, then nods. “As real as it gets.”
Another kid wrinkles his nose. “Why do you smell like smoke?”
You choke on a laugh from your spot nearby.
Logan sighs. “Reindeer get nervous.”
That earns him a round of giggles, and from there, it’s like watching something click into place. He settles into the chair they’ve set up, big hands resting on his knees as kids line up with the kind of earnest patience that only exists when Santa is involved. He listens to every wish with surprising focus, grunts thoughtfully at requests for toys, and gives the occasional warning about behaving that sounds suspiciously like it’s aimed at a certain visor-wearing team leader.
You hang back, watching him work, warmth spreading through your chest. He pretends this is torture, pretends he hates every second, but you know better. You see the way his shoulders relax, how he leans in so he doesn’t miss a word, how careful he is when a kid climbs into his lap.
At one point, he glances over at you, eyes crinkling beneath the brim of the hat. “Still laughin’?” he asks.
You shake your head, smiling softly. “No. I think you’re doing great.”
He huffs, but there’s something pleased in it. “Don’t get used to it.”
The event rolls on, filled with laughter, camera flashes, and the occasional meltdown when a kid realizes Santa can’t stay forever. By the time the last child wanders off clutching a candy cane, Logan looks exhausted, beard slightly crooked and coat dusted with fake snow.
He stands, rolling his shoulders, and makes a beeline for you. “Done,” he declares. “I need air.”
You laugh, reaching out to steady him as he pulls the hat off his head. “You survived.”
“Barely,” he says, but there’s no real bite to it. He glances back at the hall, where kids are still buzzing with excitement, then back at you. “Worth it, though.”
For someone who never wanted to play Santa, he looks a little too satisfied as he heads backstage with you at his side.
The hallway behind the main hall is mercifully quiet, the noise from the kids dulled to a distant, cheerful hum once the doors swing shut behind you. The lights are lower back here, practical instead of decorative, and the air feels cooler, calmer, like the mansion itself is taking a breath after all that excitement.
Logan wastes no time tugging at the beard again, fingers hooking under the elastic with a scowl. “This thing’s gonna be the death of me,” he mutters. “Feels like it’s tryin’ to rip my face off.”
“Hold still,” you say, stepping closer before he can actually yank it free. “You’ll take half your hair with it.”
He pauses, eyes flicking down to you, and the tension drains out of him almost immediately. “You sayin’ that like you care about my hair.”
You snort softly, reaching up to carefully adjust the beard instead. “Someone has to. You’re not exactly gentle with yourself.”
He grumbles, but he lets you fuss, standing there in the too-big red suit while you fix what Hank meticulously arranged earlier. Up close, you can see the faint crease between his brows, the way his shoulders sag now that the performance is over. Exhaustion clings to him, heavy but satisfied.
“You did good,” you say quietly, fingers smoothing the edge of the beard. “The kids loved you.”
Logan huffs. “They’re kids. Low standards.”
“That’s not true,” you reply, meeting his eyes. “They’d know if you didn’t care.”
Something flickers across his face at that, brief and unguarded, before he looks away. “Yeah, well. Don’t tell Summers. He’ll never shut up about it.”
You smile, hand still resting against his chest for balance. The suit is warm beneath your palm, solid and familiar despite the ridiculousness of it all. For a moment, neither of you move, the quiet stretching comfortably between you.
Then Logan’s hand comes up, settling at your waist like it belongs there. “C’mere,” he murmurs.
It’s instinct more than decision that has you stepping closer, closing the small gap between you. The hallway feels even quieter now, the rest of the world pushed somewhere far away. Logan dips his head, the brim of the hat shadowing his eyes, and presses a kiss to your mouth that’s meant to be quick, meant to be harmless.
It doesn’t stay that way.
You can taste peppermint and something distinctly Logan beneath it, feel the way his grip tightens just slightly like he’s grounding himself in the contact. The beard brushes your skin, scratchy and absurd, and you laugh softly against his mouth without meaning to. “Sorry,” you whisper, pulling back just enough to breathe. “The beard.”
“Don’t,” he mutters, already leaning back in. “I know.”
This time the kiss deepens, unhurried and familiar, the kind that comes from shared space and shared quiet moments stolen between responsibilities. His thumb presses into your side, warm and sure, and you forget entirely that you’re standing in a hallway meant for foot traffic.
Neither of you hear the soft shuffle of footsteps.
Around the corner, a small figure has wandered off in search of cookies that may or may not exist, following the vague memory of someone saying there were extras “back that way.” They stop short when they see the red suit first, eyes lighting up with recognition.
Then they see you.
The kid freezes, staring in open-mouthed disbelief at Santa Claus kissing someone they know, someone who definitely belongs with Logan, because everyone knows that. Their brain scrambles to make sense of it, logic tangling hopelessly around the impossible image in front of them.
Santa is not Logan.
Santa is kissing you.
That cannot be right.
Heart pounding, the kid backs away slowly, careful not to make a sound, and disappears down the hall just as you finally pull back, resting your forehead briefly against Logan’s chest.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
You nod, smiling up at him. “Yeah. Just… glad that’s over.”
He exhales, brushing his thumb along your jaw with a softness he pretends not to have. “Me too.”
Neither of you notice anything amiss as he tugs the hat off his head and you straighten the front of his coat, completely unaware that somewhere in the mansion, a very serious misunderstanding has just taken root.
The kid doesn’t stop moving until they’re two hallways away.
Their heart is hammering like they’ve done something wrong just by seeing it, like the image might chase them if they slow down long enough to think about it. Santa kissing you plays on a loop in their head, impossibly clear, and no amount of rationalizing makes it make sense. They know you. They know Logan. Everyone knows you and Logan are together. That’s just a fact, like classes and training schedules and Logan always scowling when someone touches his stuff.
Santa is not Logan. Santa had a beard and a hat and a red coat and a voice that wasn’t quite right. Santa is supposed to kiss Mrs. Claus, not you.
The kid presses themself against the wall for a second, breathing hard, trying to sort it out. Maybe it was pretend? Maybe it was a trick? But it didn’t look like a trick. It looked like the kind of kiss you give someone you like a lot, the kind you’re not supposed to interrupt.
Which makes it worse. Because if Santa kissed you and Logan didn’t know about it, that means something bad is happening, and bad things are always supposed to be reported to an adult. That’s what they’re taught. That’s what the rules are for, even when your stomach feels weird and you don’t really want to get anyone in trouble.
They push off the wall and start walking again, slower now, eyes scanning for someone official enough to handle something this big.
They pass other kids still buzzing from the party, chattering about presents and Santa’s voice and whether reindeer would fit on the roof. None of them have any idea what just happened. The kid feels older all of a sudden, weighed down with responsibility they absolutely did not ask for.
By the time they reach the stairwell, their mind is made up.
They climb the steps two at a time, heading for the upper level where the teachers usually end up after events like this. They hesitate at the landing, chewing on their lip, then square their shoulders and keep going.
Scott is the first one they see. He’s standing near the balcony railing with Jean, both of them relaxed in that post-event way, talking quietly while watching the last of the kids be ushered off to dinner. The kid stops short, nerves flaring all over again.
Scott notices immediately. He always does. “Hey,” he says, voice gentle, crouching down to be closer to their height. “What’s up? Everything okay?”
The kid glances at Jean, then back at Scott, then around the hallway like Santa might suddenly appear again. They lean in, lowering their voice to a whisper like they’re sharing classified information. “I saw something,” they say.
Scott’s expression shifts, the humor from earlier gone in an instant. “All right,” he replies calmly. “What did you see?”
The kid swallows. “I saw Santa kissing someone.”
Jean’s brows lift, but she stays quiet, reading the situation. Scott tilts his head slightly. “Okay,” he says carefully. “Who was he kissing?”
The kid’s eyes widen again, like saying it out loud makes it more real. “Mr. Logan’s girlfriend.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then another. Scott blinks once. Jean’s mouth twitches, but she presses her lips together, turning away just enough to compose herself. Scott clears his throat. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” the kid says quickly, nodding hard. “I know them. And Logan wasn’t there. It was just Santa.”
Jean finally looks back, her eyes bright with something that is definitely not concern, but she keeps her voice smooth. “You did the right thing by telling us,” she says. “Thank you for coming to us.”
The kid relaxes a little at that, shoulders dropping. “Is Mr. Logan gonna be mad?”
Scott presses his lips together, clearly fighting something, then shakes his head. “We’ll handle it,” he says. “You don’t have to worry about anything.”
“Okay,” the kid says, still unsure but trusting. They glance back down the stairs once more, then nod and head off toward the dorms.
The moment they’re out of earshot, Scott straightens slowly. Jean lets out a quiet laugh, covering her mouth with her hand. “Oh no,” she murmurs.
Scott stares down the hallway in the direction you and Logan disappeared earlier, a slow, delighted grin spreading across his face. “This,” he says, far too pleased, “is incredible.”
Jean shakes her head, trying and failing to look disapproving. “You’re going to enjoy this way too much.”
Scott doesn’t deny it.
Tracking the kid down turns out to be easier than Logan expects and significantly harder than his patience would prefer.
They’re in one of the common rooms upstairs, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a small group, half-listening to someone read aloud while absently twisting the end of a candy cane wrapper. The moment they glance up and see you and Logan in the doorway, their entire posture stiffens. Their eyes flick to Logan, then to you, then widen like they’re bracing for trouble.
Logan notices immediately. “Hey,” he says, keeping his voice deliberately even as he steps into the room. He crouches down instead of looming, resting his forearms on his knees. “We gotta talk for a minute. You’re not in trouble.”
The kid hesitates, then nods slowly, standing and following you both a few steps away to a quieter corner. You can practically see the worry rolling off them, shoulders tense, jaw set like they’re preparing for something awful.
“You did the right thing,” you tell them gently before they can speak. “Really. Thank you for telling someone when you were confused.”
That seems to help a little. “I didn’t mean to spy,” they say quickly. “I was just looking for cookies.”
Logan snorts despite himself. “Yeah, that tracks.”
He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out the Santa beard, holding it up between two fingers. The kid’s eyes lock onto it instantly. “This,” Logan says, “is the part where things got mixed up.”
He doesn’t drag it out. He doesn’t tease. He just lifts the beard and presses it back against his face, holding it there long enough for the realization to hit.
The kid blinks. Then blinks again. “That was… you?” they ask slowly.
Logan nods. “Yeah. Whole thing. Suit, beard, all of it.”
Their mouth falls open. “But you sounded different.”
“Fake beard messes with your voice,” Logan replies. “Also, I was tryin’ not to scare anybody.”
The kid looks between you, the beard, and Logan’s very familiar face as the puzzle finally clicks together. The tension drains out of them all at once, replaced by a flush of embarrassment so strong you feel for them immediately. “Oh,” they say faintly.
You smile softly. “It wasn’t Santa kissing me. It was just Logan. We didn’t see you there, or we would’ve explained.”
“I thought,” the kid starts, then trails off, face burning. “I thought you were cheating.”
Logan’s brows knit together, expression serious but not angry. “Nah. Not how that works. We’re good.” He reaches out and squeezes your hand, solid and certain, the kind of gesture that leaves no room for doubt.
The kid lets out a shaky laugh, relief flooding their features. “I’m really sorry.”
“You don’t have to be,” you say quickly. “You were looking out for someone you care about. That’s not a bad thing.”
Logan nods. “Kid did right. Even if it caused me a headache.” That earns a small smile.
From across the room, Scott watches the whole exchange with an expression that’s far too entertained for someone pretending to supervise. Jean elbows him quietly. “Don’t,” she murmurs.
“I didn’t say anything,” Scott whispers back, grinning.
The kid glances toward them, then back at you and Logan. “You’re not mad?”
Logan shakes his head. “Nope. Just maybe don’t tell anyone else, yeah?”
They nod eagerly. “I won’t. Promise.”
Logan lowers the beard back into his pocket and straightens, offering the kid a brief nod of approval. “All right. Go enjoy the rest of the night.”
As the kid heads back to their group, lighter and visibly relieved, Logan exhales through his nose and mutters, “next year, I’m vetoing Santa.”
You laugh softly, leaning into his side as you watch the room settle back into normalcy. The misunderstanding is cleared, the crisis neatly wrapped up, and for once, no one’s feelings are hurt.
Logan manages to get through the rest of the evening without further humiliation, which he counts as a personal victory. The suit is returned to Hank, the beard stuffed unceremoniously into a drawer, and the mansion gradually drifts into its calmer nighttime rhythm. Most of the kids are still buzzing, but the chaos is fading, leaving behind that warm, contented glow that comes after a successful event.
You and Logan slip away to your room, finally, gratefully. He tosses his jacket over a chair, rolls his shoulders, and lets out a long breath like he’s been holding it in for hours. “Never again,” he declares, kicking off his boots. “I don’t care if they draw straws or flip a damn car for it. I’m not wearin’ that thing again.”
You stretch out on the edge of the bed, amusement tugging at your mouth. “You were good with them.”
Logan gives you a look that says he refuses to acknowledge that. “They’re lucky I like them.”
You step closer, brushing your hand along his arm. “They’re lucky you’re you.”
He grunts, which is as close to flustered as Logan ever gets, and you lean in to kiss him—soft, steady, grounding—before he can argue. He breathes into it, fingers curling at your waist, the tension finally beginning to bleed out of him.
And that’s when it happens, the knock. Three taps, sharp and purposeful, followed by the faint sound of someone absolutely failing to contain their amusement.
Logan pulls back, narrowing his eyes. “If that’s Summers, I swear to—”
You place a hand on his chest. “Just open it.”
He opens the door halfway, just enough to see who’s bold or stupid enough to show up at this hour. No one is there, just an envelope, taped to the door at eye level.
Logan scowls. He rips it down, muttering, “This better not be somethin’ stupid,” and opens it with all the gentleness of someone disarming a bomb.
You step behind him to read over his shoulder. The card is printed on thick cardstock, the kind used for overly fancy greeting cards. Snowflakes border the edges. Inside, in elegant looping handwriting that is absolutely not Jean’s and suspiciously not Scott’s normal scrawl, is a single message:
Dear Mr. Claus,
Thank you for stepping in during our holiday staffing shortage. Your performance has exceeded expectations. Due to popular demand, you have been automatically enrolled for next year's appearance. Congratulations.
Love,
Management.
You don’t even get through the second line before you hear it—Scott’s laugh, distant but unmistakable, echoing faintly from down the hallway where he’s clearly hiding around a corner like a coward.
“It’s a little funny,” you murmur, unable to help the smile tugging at your lips.
“It’s not funny,” he repeats, even though the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s debating whether to yell or laugh or tear the card in half.
A second, smaller slip of paper falls out of the envelope and flutters to the floor. Logan picks it up. It’s a short list, written in the same fancy script:
Mandatory Training for Next Year’s Santa:
— Improve jolliness
— Reduce glaring
— Practice ‘ho ho ho’ (current attempt rated: 1/10)
— Wear hat correctly (see attached diagram)
Below the list is an incredibly detailed sketch—Hank-level detailed—showing precisely how Logan is supposed to tilt the Santa hat for “maximum cheery effect.” You clap a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing too loudly. Logan stares at the paper, then at the hallway where Scott and Jean are definitely lurking. “I’m gonna kill him,” he says calmly.
“You won’t,” you reply, leaning against him. “You’ll grumble, and he’ll make a joke, and then you’ll pretend not to enjoy any of this.”
He grunts. “You think I enjoyed this?”
“You didn’t hate it.”
He sighs, defeated. “I hated parts of it.”
You fold the card and slip it onto the dresser before pulling him back toward the room. “Come on. Leave Scott alone tonight. At least the misunderstanding’s cleared up.”
“Doesn’t mean he gets to sign me up for next year,” Logan mutters.
“He didn’t sign you up,” you say, nudging him playfully. “Management did.”
He gives you a long, slow look. “You’re not funny.”
“You’re a little funny-looking without the beard.”
He groans dramatically and drops onto the bed, pulling you with him as he mutters something using unholiday like language. But when you settle in beside him, his arm slides around you automatically, tugging you close. Outside, faint laughter drifts down the hallway—Scott’s victory lap—and Logan grumbles into your hair, “next year, I’m sabotagin’ the drawing.”
welcome everybody
I am Ghazi Younis, a Palestinian from Gaza. I stayed in the war for … Mohammed Darabaih needs your support for Get my rel
" This too shall pass "
I believe that good will always overcome evil, just as spring comes, and with it eternal life, overcoming the bitter cold of winter. We will overcome this genocide very soon with God's help and your continued help and support. One of the advantages we achieved during the war is to convey to you our voice, which has not been heard for many years, and to reveal the nature of this occupation and its actions that have been covered up for hundreds of years.
I would like to introduce you to my simple Palestinian family, who lived in peace in a very beautiful house consisting of a ground and upper floor and a charming garden that we renovated shortly before the war, but the occupation had a different opinion regarding the barbaric bombing of civilians and homes. The occupation destroyed our dear home, which reminded me of my father, the dearest person in the world. My life, may God have mercy on him. The occupation killed every happy and even sad memory by bombing our house.
This is my aunt Rifqa, my younger brother Ahmed, in his last year of school before university. My aunt's house was next door to ours, and she had been single for years. She was not married, and since we are a small family, I have no uncles, because my father was single. It was always my duty to check on my aunt and provide her with everything from food, drink, medicine, and everything else. Before I went to university every day, I always liked to go there to have breakfast together, chat and get her approval before I went to my studies. The memories of the occupation bombing my aunt’s house also disappeared.
This our beloved home before and after Israeli bombing 💔
My priority is to help this kind old woman, when the Rafah crossing is opened, to leave the Gaza Strip safely for Egypt. I do not care about the homes destroyed by the occupation. Money can be compensated, but the soul can be compensated. I don't want to see my aunt again. I want her to be with us again. This is really what I want. I want to send her money so that she can support herself in the northern Gaza Strip. The prices are crazy, folks, especially the food prices.
My priority is to help this kind old woman, when the Rafah crossing is opened, to leave the Gaza Strip safely for Egypt. I do not care about the homes destroyed by the occupation. Money can be compensated, but the soul can be compensated. I don't want to see my aunt again. I want her to be with us again. This is really what I want. I want to send her money so that she can support herself in the northern Gaza Strip. The prices are crazy, folks, especially the food prices.
this is my friend Ali Al-Tababi, and my name is Ghazi Sheto, but he was closer to me than many people in my family. I met Ali at university, and we had a goal: to graduate and work together. We will stay up all night to make this dream come true. He was always at my house, playing, studying, sleeping together and going to university together. We were conjoined twins. Quote. Him and all his family members. You can see the massacre of the Tabatabai family. May God have mercy on them all. I want to fulfill my dream and my friend’s dream and bring my aunt to Egypt and build my house again if possible.
He asked for 30 thousand as compensation, less than a little for what we lost in the war. Frankly, our homes cost half a million dollars, but I asked for 30 thousand so that I could bring my aunt and protect her soul from being killed and so that she could do that. Come to Egypt safely and give her food and drink while she is stuck in northern Gaza, but unfortunately I have only collected $500 so far.
These donations will go to my aunt, the old woman stranded in the northern Gaza Strip, to give her the opportunity to travel, protect her life from being killed, and secure her daily sustenance of food and nutrition. I ask everyone who can help, do not hesitate, because we really need help. Thank you all, and I hope you don't suffer as I do. We suffered, especially my weak aunt.
i Hope you all good thanks you for our support towards our cause 🙏🤍
On the vernal equinox, March 21, 2024, my beloved baby was born and I named him Abdul Aziz. He was a beloved, innocent baby like any baby, but suddenly, a week after Abdul Aziz was born, he developed severe swelling in his abdomen. I visited several doctors specializing in pediatrics and neonatology to no avail
I performed several examinations and CT scans on the child to find out the cause, to no avail. Abdul Aziz's abdomen swelled significantly, which necessitated his immediate transfer to the hospital. There, in the presence of a pediatric surgeon, after a precise diagnosis, it was discovered that there was an intestinal obstruction preventing the baby from defecating.
Immediately, temporary conservative treatments were performed on the baby to remove the swelling, to no avail, until the doctor decided to perform a delicate surgical operation in which Abdul Aziz underwent general anesthesia when he was only 20 days old. The surgical operation aimed to create a lateral protrusion in the child's abdomen. Four samples were taken from the child's colon twice, under general anesthesia, to be examined in the laboratory. It was confirmed that part of Abdul Aziz's rectum had Hirschsprung's disease, and it was decided to perform a complex surgical operation a month from now to remove the affected part. I am speaking to you with great sadness and pain about my son's condition. At this age, he has undergone dozens of tests, blood samples, CT scans, and a large group of medications..
Now I ask you to support and donate to me to save Abdul Aziz and perform the operation after snoring from now on, and its cost may exceed 5000 US dollars.. I do not have this required amount and I do not want to postpone the date of the operation to solve Abdul Aziz's problem..
Your standing by me and supporting me is enough to improve the child's condition and perform the operation successfully.
What will we do with the money..
I will pay the money to cover the costs of the surgery as well as the costs of the hospital and the doctor and to buy the child's medications..
Help me save my baby
On the vernal equinox, March 21, 2024, my beloved baby was born and I named him Abdul Aziz. He w… Ahmed Azeez needs your support for Donate
Hello, I am Heba Al-Anqar, 21 years old, a university student. My university was suspended due to the war. I am writing about my family: my father Bakr (54 years old), my mother Alaa (46 years old), and my sisters Aya (18 years old), Amal (15 years old), Muhammad (13 years old), and Maryam (8 years old). We have faced many challenges in this war, from the destruction of our home to the famine we continue to suffer in northern Gaza.
My father suffers from heart problems. He had open-heart surgery when he was 36 years old. He also suffers from cartilage problems. He had his pelvic joint replaced about two years ago, in addition to other health problems. He cannot work due to his health condition.
My mother also suffers from asthma and shortness of breath, in addition to the difficulty of obtaining treatment due to the conditions and the war.
This is our house, which was destroyed by war
We have become homeless in places of refuge, in addition to the difficulty of obtaining medicine, food, and daily expenses
I created this account to request your help in this difficult ordeal by donating to meet the necessary needs, as we were relying on social assistance before the war.
My goal is to help my family live in safety and provide the necessary necessities for living, as there is a high cost of living and difficulty in obtaining necessities. We ask for your help in leaving the Gaza Strip to save my family’s life. The cost of travel is $5,000 per adult and $2,500 per child, in addition to travel and accommodation expenses of $500 per month.
Together, we can support Heba and her family through this ordeal. Your donation, no matter how big, can make a difference in my family's life to get life and start a new life
Hello, I am Heba Al-Anqar, 21 years old, a university student. My universi… Heba Alanqar needs your support for Help heba and his family to
If you are looking to support Heba and her family, please consider providing assistance directly or through relevant charitable organizations.
Thank you dear supporters for all the help you are offering the people of Gaza in this dire time. I am a father of four tender babies who are paying much of their childhood and innocence in this unfair war. Please do whatever you can to help me save my family till the war ends.
Despite the suffering and hardships of this fierce war , your support and assistance ease us and grant us power and patience. Your contribution keeps a whole family safe, that is why i am asking you to donate whatever you can of at least share my link so that other donors can know about my tragedy and pain.
Together we can help save Kareem & Carmen.
I am Yousef Hussein, from G… Yousef Hussein needs your support for Evacuate Kareem & Ca
How can we bear to live here? 🍉♥️Help me and my children get out of here. We are dying every minute from the high temperature and lack of food and water. Donate to us even 10 or 20 dollars. It would make a difference in our lives. We need it as soon as possible. Don't forget us. Thank you for your humanity and standing with us. We are praying for you. The link is in our CV. https://gofund.me/dd0fac71
I am Wijdan, 43 years old, married, and my husband has been dead for nearly 8 years. I have 3 children: Hamza, 16 years old, Zakaria, 18 years old, and Israa, 24 years old. We were displaced about 12 times from one place to another and from one school to another, and in the end we are now in the tent in Mawasi Khan Yunis Saadu. My family is able to obtain food, drink, food, clothing, transportation, and displacement from one place to another. Please, we need you. Help my children, they need you.
I am Wijdan, 43 years old, married, and my husband has been dead for nearly 8 years. I have 3 c… Amir Abdulla needs your support for Help es
I will not explain at length. Yesterday I lost the last remaining member of my family in northern Gaza. It broke my heart to see them collecting the little girl's body parts. I couldn't imagine the pain that happened to them. Click. I cannot forget what happened to my family months ago when our house was bombed and a massacre was committed against my family. Click. Lolo's father was killed so that she would become a lone survivor and an orphan. All I can say is there is no time. Please, can you save what's left of my family.
Nesma Ahmed is raising funds to help her family evacuate from Gaza. Currently, Gaza has been… Mena K needs your support for Help Nesma and h
Mawasi Khan Yunis is the most densely populated area, containing more than a million displaced people living in dilapidated tents, just like us. The Israeli army classified it as a safe area and called on people to go there, then attacked it tonight with six highly explosive missiles. Will the cloth tent protect people’s bodies? The tents were penetrated and the bodies and bones of the dead melted, children, women and young people lying on the ground, most of them children. Most of the victims were not found by the paramedics. They were burned and their remains were mixed with the sand and disappeared. Where are the human rights organizations? Where is the International Justice Organization? Where? Where? Don't they consider us human beings who deserve a decent life? How long will this situation last? We miraculously survived. Will we survive every time? The world must move to stop this war and protect us from the brutality of the brutal Israeli occupation. I apologize for publishing the photos of the massacre because of its ugliness. No heart with humanity and mercy can bear to see it. Please donate to us. Get us out. Help us escape with our children who are being targeted by the occupation. Do not ignore us. Donate even a little and you will be rewarded. May God protect your families from all harm.😔😔🥺🥺😥😥💔💔💔💔💔🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏
I'm Haya from Gaza , from a family of 8 people: my parents, two sons, and four daughters (two of them suffer from allergies).
Dear Humanity,
I'm Haya from Gaza , from a family of 8 people: my… Ahmed Alshawish needs your support for Emergency: Help Evacuate My Fa
I've witnessed the evidence of the tragedy that has struck our lives in Gaza, where my family and I have survived amidst numerous previous wars. But today, we face the most dangerous and fierce battle in the current war. The urgent need intensifies for us, as we have nothing left and are unable to secure our basic needs such as food, water, and safe shelter.
Here is our story - On October 7th, our lives changed forever, my family and I evacuated from northern Gaza to southern Gaza, hoping to return soon, but it wasn't meant to be. Our home was surrounded, burned, and then completely destroyed, Our home, once a fortress of hope, now lay in ruins, a stark reminder of our shattered dreams.
The night before we left from the north to the south was terrifying. Shelling sounds were everywhere, making a loud noise that felt like it went through our souls. Every explosions shook the ground like earthquakes, sending shockwaves of fear through our trembling bodies. filling us with fear. The air smelled of destruction and blood, making it hard to breathe. When dawn came, we saw the devastation around us, realizing our home was now a symbol of loss and despair.
We ran into the streets and with each step we took into the unknown streets, we felt as if we were plunging deeper into the abyss of our shattered existence, leaving behind everything we own in our home: Clothes, important official documents, the car, and literally it's almost everything - the enormity of our loss weighed heavily upon us.
Our home it was where we found hope, safety, and made precious memories. Losing it felt like losing years of our lives, leaving us adrift amidst the wreckage of our shattered existence.
A brief video depicting the devastation that struck our home and our entire neighborhood in Gaza.
Desperate Plea: Escaping Gaza's Allergy Nightmare
I, Haya, suffer from severe allergy to penicillin-derived medications, and my sister, Amal, also suffers from severe allergies to medications from my family such as Paracetamol and Ibuprofen.
These allergies create a deep sense of fear and anxiety for us, as we live in a constant state of tension and fear of anything that may require a visit to the hospital. We fear being given inappropriate medications due to the unavailability of suitable treatments in Gaza because of war or lack of awareness and not informing the doctor of our allergies, which could lead to serious consequences threatening our lives.
MY Father Income
Our dreams are heading towards oblivion in the labyrinth of an uncertain future
My story, along with my siblings, represents a united team of four individuals, three of whom are skilled programmers and one graphic designer. We work as freelancers in the world of freelancing.
As for my younger sister, she is a student studying at the College of Architecture. She has always carried a big dream in her heart, a dream of being part of changing Gaza, of making it more beautiful and better. She looked forward to the day when she would receive her degree and start building this dream. But the beginning of the war changed everything. The destruction of infrastructure and universities cast shadows of despair over her dreams.
When I think of my brother in Belgium, I can't help but feel deep sadness. He has been suffering from unbearable anxiety and insomnia since the outbreak of the war. Sleep eludes him at night, and his physical and mental health collapses under the weight of these heavy burdens, negatively affecting his performance at work. Problems and challenges pile up in front of him without the slightest opportunity for rest.
We all feel psychological pressure and extreme anxiety. The war hasn't been limited to external attacks but has deeply infiltrated our daily lives. We search among the rubble for a little safety and the basic resources for survival. Every day comes with a new challenge that we must overcome.
As we sway amidst the rubble of shattered dreams, our souls wrestle and our hearts beat strongly challenging the ravages of war.
Our parents earnestly seek a way to rescue us from this hell, feeling the heavy responsibility for every moment we spend under the shadows of fear and destruction. They dream of a safe place where they can build for us a better future, filled with security and hope, for we deserve life in all its meanings of comfort and peace.
Perhaps this fundraising campaign represents a light in the midst of darkness, it is indeed the only hope we cling to firmly.
I appeal to the world as a whole to hear my cry and the mournful cry of my family in Gaza. We need the helping hand that reaches out to wipe our tears and build a bridge to safety.
Your donation is not just a donation; it's an opportunity to rebuild life and brighten a better tomorrow. Be part of our hopeful story, for we need your hand to start anew.
The purpose of the fundraising campaign
The goal of this fundraising campaign is to rescue my family - my parents, my siblings, and me - through the Rafah Crossing to Egypt, which currently requires $5000 per person. This campaign is our only chance to stay alive, and I humbly request your assistance at this critical time. I will provide you with a comprehensive breakdown of the expenses, committing to transparency and clarity.
Dear Humanity,
I'm Haya from Gaza , from a family of 8 people: my… Ahmed Alshawish needs your support for Emergency: Help Evacuate My Fa
All of our important links are here https://linktr.ee/hayanahed
Verified by :
⭐️ operation olive branch, number 26 on their spreadsheet. (On Master list)
⭐️ Project watermelon,line 249 on their spreadsheet. Or you could see it as number 212 here is the photo for more clear proof
Abdel Mutei has confirmed that €25,000 is the final goal and not the first goal. The initial goal of €50,000 (changed recently) was a mistake. Proof under cut.
Campaign/family details:
This family consists of Abdel Mutei (husband) and Shaima (wife), their young daughter Juri, and Abdel Mutei's elderly parents. The gfm page and some of his posts imply more family members, but only these people are involved in this campaign. I got this info from Abdel Mutei himself (proof under cut).
They were displaced roughly 2 months after Oct 7 after their home was bombed and has been displaced twice since.
They currently live in a small tent. Living conditions are poor and all members are suffering from malnutrition.
The children have recently contacted scabies, a highly contagious skin infection causing great itchiness and discomfort.
Juri is suffering from depression and psychological trauma at the age of 2.
Update Aug 27: Juri is suffering from seizures.
They are seeking to evacuate.
Evidence (and other media posts):
Abdel Mutei confirming that €25,000 is the final goal
Abdel Mutei clarifying the family members involved in this campaign and that the initial goal of €50,000 was a mistake
