Our Story:

We stand on the edge of life, clutching to hope with trembling fingers, holding on to the last threads of light while everything around us collapses. We wait for a hand to reach out before we are swallowed entirely by this open-ended hell.

My name is Qusai. I am a writer from Gaza. I write because we are being erased in silence, and I refuse to let our story be buried beneath the rubble. I believe that words can restore what missiles destroy, and that even a broken voice can still reach the world. I dream of publishing my book to tell our story as we have lived it, not as it flashes coldly across TV screens. But how does one write in smoke? How does hope grow beneath ruins?

The war has not ended. It is here raging, tearing through our lives day after day. The bombs still fall, fear never leaves us, and hunger gnaws at our bodies like a silent killer. We no longer have a home only a torn tent that barely shields us from death. We cling to one another as if we are the only refuge left.

We are trying to live despite everything to believe that the sun might rise again, that this endless night might one day break. But we are in a land that buries dreams while they are still alive, where children cry not out of life, but from starvation.

Your support is not just kindness it is life pulled from the rubble. It is a hand reaching for a family crushed between airstrikes and displacement, offering a breath of survival.

We are not asking for much only to be seen as human. To hold pens in our hands instead of grief. To build a space, no matter how small, to shelter our souls from the storm. The war continues to take everything from us, but we are still here still resisting, still writing, still holding on to life as if it’s the last thing we have.