Hello, my name is Mohammed. I’m a Palestinian from Gaza, currently living in the UK. I’m writing on behalf of my cousin, Maha, who is still in Gaza and has asked me to set up this fundraiser for her.

Maha and her family have endured unimaginable hardship, and they need urgent support to rebuild their lives and find a sense of safety and stability again. Please take a moment to read her story below — and if you’re able, we would deeply appreciate any contribution you can make to help them restore even a small part of what has been taken from them.

Thank you so much for your compassion and support.

I am a mother from Gaza, writing to you not from a house, stay in a tent built from fear and patience, and I record my thoughts with the heaviness of sorrow,،،

Before October 7, 2023, we led a humble life in a rented home in Khan Younis. It wasn't big—just a small structure with a zinc roof—but it was ours. My children felt safe there; it echoed with their laughter, and fragile dreams took root within its walls.

Then war came.

In a single night, everything turned to rubble. Our house was bombed, looted, erased from existence. My children lost more than their toys and clothes—they lost their sense of security and their right to childhood.

My husband, who was a lawyer who overcame orphanhood to earn a dignified living, is now unemployed and ill. His body deteriorates from diabetes, with no medication or insulin available. He smiles and pretends to be strong in front of the children, but I see the truth in his weary eyes.

During the war, my husband was slightly injured in his shoulder by a drone strike while we were going out together to buy some groceries. Though it was minor, the wound added another layer of trauma and pain to our already difficult life.

We had little before the war; now we have nothing.

We live day-to-day on a single piece of bread—if we find it at all. We wait in lines for hours, usually returning with just one piece to divide among four mouths. Vegetables and fruits have become fairy tales. Eggs and cheese are just words my hungry children whisper.

My son Amir is only eight years old. He started his first school year enthusiastically, but after just one month, the war robbed him of his childhood. He always loved drawing and would try to paint and sketch with his tiny fingers. I always wished to nurture his talent, but all his dreams were destroyed, and all his colors were lost. He no longer goes to school and doesn't know how to fill his days. He sits silently most of the time, unable to do anything, and I have no way to bring joy back to his eyes. All he wants is to feel like a normal child again.

My youngest child is three years old; he has spent two years of his life under war. He doesn't know the taste of milk or toys. He smiles when he sees a dry piece of bread and refuses anything else—because that’s all he knows.

As for me… I'm a mother and a student. I completed my university studies with a major in English Language Education. Over the past years, I tried to work in several centers as a part-time trainee for English language levels, earning very modest wages. However, they helped me secure a livelihood for myself and my children. But now, I have lost everything because these centers were destroyed before the occupation. I no longer have any job to work in until now.

I continue pursuing my master's in translation, searching for a scholarship, dreaming of rebuilding something for my family.

But I'm exhausted.

I'm tired of pretending to be strong. I'm tired of the cold ground beneath my children. I'm tired of fighting for dignity while the world watches silently.

We live in one tent shared with three other families. No space, no quiet, no rest. We long for a tent of our own—not a luxury, but a simple right. A corner to breathe, a place to gather ourselves.

I'm not asking for much. Not wealth, not luxury. Just a tent. A notebook. Insulin. A warm meal. A moment of peace.

I am just one of thousands of mothers in Gaza. We give birth in tents. We cook on open fires. We shield our children with our bodies from bombs and despair.

Help us—not merely to survive, but to live.

Help us stand again… simply to stand.

Even the smallest act of compassion can restore a piece of humanity lost in Gaza.