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.

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.

In Gaza, even after the planes go silent, the echo of bombing still lingers in the sky — and the echo of loss remains in the heart.
The war didn’t just destroy our homes; it stole parts of our souls.
I am one of thousands who lived under the bombs, dreaming of peace like any other human being — to wake up without fear, to see my loved ones safe and alive.
And even now, the memories of war follow us in every corner of the street, in every child’s eyes filled with questions and pain.

But my pain is different… because I lost my mother and my sister in a single moment, in a single house — between walls that once echoed with laughter and warmth.
There is no pain like searching through rubble for a voice you used to hear every morning.
There is no heartbreak like reaching for a hand that once held yours, only to find emptiness.
Today, the war may seem to be ending, but its scars remain.
The occupation still strikes from time to time, and we are still trying to gather the pieces of our lives — to rebuild the house that became a memory, to take one more step toward normal life, to continue the path we started.
I want to return to my studies… to lift my mother’s memory from the ruins and tell her, “I made it, Mom, just like I promised.”
I want to plant a flower where our house once stood — a symbol that life is stronger than war, that we, the people of Gaza, never give up no matter how many times we are hit.
We are not asking for pity. We are asking for a chance — a chance to live, to rebuild, to open the books that were closed under the ashes.
Help us come back… help us continue what our mothers began before they left.
Help us plant hope again in this land that thirsts for life.
🇵🇸❤️

To everyone reading this, to every heart that feels our pain, to every person who shared, donated, or prayed — thank you, from the depths of my soul.
Your support is not just financial; it’s a message — a reminder that humanity still listens, that kindness still exists.
Every word, every share, every dollar means the world to us. It tells us that somewhere out there, people still believe Gaza deserves to live.
On behalf of my small family that remains, and in memory of my mother and sister who are gone — thank you for giving us a reason to keep going.
❤️ From Gaza, from the rubble — we still believe that goodness is stronger than war

💔🇵🇸 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.

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 )✅️