Mohammed Mahdi (left) with Ahmed (right)

Mohammed and Ahmed at the beach in happier times.

My name is Laura Beckman, and I'm a Jewish American living in NYC. I have been speaking to Mohammed Mahdi and his family on video calls and WhatsApp for 1.5 years now, and he recently introduced me to his close friend Ahmed Al-Najjar, who needs our help. Here's Ahmed's story:

"A dream we built with tears… destroyed by war in a moment"

My name is Ahmed Al-Najjar, a Palestinian from the Gaza Strip. I am 21 years old and the youngest of my eight siblings. The war began when I was 19, before I could finish my first year at university, where I was studying accounting. I was forced to leave my studies, not because I lost passion, but because life pushed me to stand by my family before I could fulfill my dream.

Since childhood, I have worked in tough jobs — carrying loads beyond my age in markets, toiling in fields, and helping in workshops. I would return from work to school exhausted, yet I held on to hope for a better future for myself and my family.

Life in war is unbearably harsh…

These are days where fear mixes with hunger, where the sounds of bombing merge with children’s cries, and where there is no space for rest or safety. Every morning we wake up with the same question: Will we live until the end of the day?

Electricity is cut most of the time, water is scarce, and the markets are empty except for high prices. Even sleep has become a luxury, as the bombing never allows our eyes to close, and the smell of smoke and gunpowder fills our breath day and night.

Every day we hear news of neighbors or friends who have lost their homes or loved ones, and we feel that our turn may come at any moment. The children in our family ask us: "When will the war end?"… and we have no answer.

We all live together in a small two-story house that barely fits our bodies, let alone our dreams. Six of my siblings are married with children, and the house is divided among us the way life’s breath is divided in hardship. As for me, I sleep in the guest room—not because it’s the nicest, but because it’s the only space left for me.

My father was a baker who spent his life between the heat of ovens until his back bent and the years wore him down. My mother has always been our last wall of defense against need—patient, complaining only to God.

When my father stopped working, we took up the responsibility. We worked in fields, workshops, and markets… We toiled without complaint, just to live with dignity, without stretching out our hands to anyone. After years of effort, we saved enough to start a small project: a chicken farm. We did not ask for wealth—only dreamed of a decent life.

But the dream was never born…

In a moment, a single missile fell and erased everything: the farm, the money, the sweat, the hope… We didn’t sell a single batch, and we didn’t celebrate a single day. We just returned to our crowded home… and back to zero.

And despite everything, I still dream of leaving Gaza to safety, where I can start my life anew, complete my education, and give my family a future without fear. But I have no way to make that happen, and the borders are closed to those without money.

Today, we are eight siblings, our children, our wives, our mother, and our father… all living on top of each other in a house that can’t even contain silence. We are not asking for luxury—we only want a chance to stand on our feet again.

️ Your donation today is only for a decent life, to give us back the chance to live with dignity, and to grant our children a future without fear.

Contribute whatever you can—perhaps with your support, a new beginning can be written for us.