On a night that will forever haunt me, March 1, 2024, my first child, Yazen, was born in the midst of the nightmare that is the Gaza war. We had emerged from the ruins of our shattered home, the destruction around us echoing the devastation within. The sky, black as our despair, hung over us while the trees, once symbols of life, now seemed like helpless spectators to our suffering. Every moment was pierced by the relentless thunder of artillery, and the air itself seemed to scream as bullets cut through it. We clung to life, terrified that each breath might be our last. There was no escape. No hospitals remained—only rubble where hope once stood. The roads, once paths to safety, had become trails of death. We had nowhere to go, so we stayed, hidden beneath the trees, praying that somehow, we could survive the night. And then, in that abyss of fear and despair, my wife went into labor. There was no doctor, no nurse, just the two of us amidst the wreckage. I had no idea how to help her, but I had no choice. I did what I could, praying with every moment, every breath, that I wouldn’t lose them both. The birth was agonizing, a battle on its own, but somehow, despite everything, Yazen was born. He came into this world amidst destruction, and I—his father—delivered him with trembling hands. We are simple people. We never wanted anything to do with war or violence. All we ever wanted was to live, to dream, to raise our family in peace. But now, that life feels like a distant memory. Today, we live in a torn tent by the sea, fragile against the relentless wind and storms. I have lost my job as an industrial engineer, and my wife, who once dreamed of becoming a computer engineer, now clings to shattered hopes. Every day, we fight for basic survival—bread, water, a place to sleep safely. Each night, I wonder if we’ll make it to morning. Every day is a fight to stay alive. Yet even in this darkness, we hold on—barely—to the fragile thread of hope that one day, something will change. That maybe, tomorrow will be safer than today. I share this story not to burden you, but because we can no longer endure this alone.We need your help, your support, for Yazen,for my family

Recent Photo from my old house.

Recent Photo from my current tent.

Recent photo for Yazan inside the tent.