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Hi, I'm Vicky. I'm doing this campaign to support Donya and her family during these difficult times. Be part of Donya's support family.

Here is Donya's story

I'm Donya. A Palestinian, writer, poet, and teacher. But today, I write to you as a Palestinian woman who has survived a genocide. I have witnessed unspeakable crimes, and I have lived through the blockade and siege of Gaza since 2007.

How can I possibly convey the agony of 531 days of suffering within a few short paragraphs? The depths of the pain, the immensity of the loss… it would take years to articulate, and even then, words might fail me. But I will try. I will begin by sharing my story of displacement, of being targeted countless times, just as millions of other Gazans have been.

In Gaza, everything, tragically, is under Israeli control: the water, the electricity, the internet, the landlines, even our phone service. A siege has choked Gaza from land, sea, and air since 2007. It is the world’s largest open-air prison. Israeli forces called us "human animals," a chilling example of dehumanization, reducing Palestinians to something less than human.

On October 11th, under the cloak of night, my siblings and I fled to our grandmother’s house next door, a place we could easily leave. At midnight, the familiar streets of our neighborhood were transformed. Bathed in the terrifying red glow of missiles. It felt alien, menacing. We huddled together, all of us, in the living room. We said that if we were to die, we wanted to die together. Yes, together. Because no one from our family wanted to stay alive if the others were killed. The house was partially destroyed–windows shattered, doors broken, everything in pieces. We were the lucky ones. Other families in our neighborhood were killed. Shrapnel from the missiles pierced our home, like a predator stalking its prey. But this time, the prey was the wall, not us.

These images… they are seared into my memory forever.

The next day, we sought refuge in a UN school, believing it to be a safe haven. But even that illusion was shattered. On October 17th, at 6:11am, the false promise of safety exploded with thousands of blasts. The building shuddered violently, sending us scrambling, barefoot, from our makeshift beds which were covered in shattered glass.

The scene was catastrophic. I received over 20 calls from my brother working at Nasser complex. In that moment, life felt so fragile, so fleeting. I opened the notes app on my phone and wrote what I believed was my final message to the world, sending it to a friend with instructions not to read or share it until I was gone.

This is just a glimpse of my suffering. Yes, I have stared death in the face more than four times.

December 5th: my last day in Khan Younis. A sniper was positioned right in front of our window. We were told not to move. The following day, we were displaced again, this time to Rafah City, to Al Shaboura camp, living in a tent. It is not easy. I read the news that one of my teachers had been assassinated. I decided then and there to write again, even if it cost me my life.

One night, while using my phone, I heard the distinct sound of a quadcopter. It was close, too close, targeting anyone who dared to move. We fled to the school next to our tent and spent the rest of the night sitting on the stairs, in the bitter cold of winter.

But the bombings and the targeted killings are not the worst of it. The living conditions themselves stripped us of our humanity. I will never forget the gnawing hunger, the days we ate only the bare minimum to survive, the days we went without so that the children could eat. I heard stories of people in the North reduced to eating animal feed, and even that was scarce.

And then there was the winter. For the first time, I hated winter. Every day, the rain soaked our clothes, our belongings. We huddled together, some of us sleeping while others stayed awake because there weren't enough blankets to go around. How can I forget the pain of my blood freezing in my feet and fingers, the agony of not being able to find the medicine I needed?

In May 2024, we returned home, only to find reminders that the Israelis had destroyed everything, leaving behind unwanted "gifts." Imagine what those gifts were.

Our home was bombed, reduced to rubble. We found a tank door, shrapnel, bullets–the remnants of the army that occupied my house, even after bombing it.

But hope still flickers within us. I decided to teach children English during this genocide, to help them tell their stories. Because war is also a battle of narratives, of memory. And if we win the narrative, we will win hearts. We will create change. This is my life in Gaza. This is just a small part of a reality that words can never truly capture. Every small act of support makes a difference.

In light of the harsh conditions we have endured during the genocide, I have not stopped striving for excellence and creativity. Despite the pain and tragedy, I wrote two books that reflect my commitment to science and creativity. The first book is an academic work on research methodologies, currently being published with a university abroad, and it crowns my academic efforts at a time when there was little hope. The second book is a collection of poetry and letters that express our Palestinian suffering from 1948 until the genocide we are experiencing, and it offers a part of my personal story and my profound experience with this suffering.

Additionally, my friends in Spain are translating it into Spanish, and I look forward to expanding the translation to include other languages, so our voice reaches the whole world, and everyone knows what we are going through.

Please: donate, write, post, speak, share our story.