Ziad and his family escaped from Gaza to Egypt after enduring brutal Israeli aggression for more than three months. They are safe now but have lost everything: their home was completely destroyed and vandalized, they spent all their life savings crossing the border, the universities where the kids studied no longer exist, and their friends have been killed, sometimes with their entire families.

They have now obtained a visa to relocate to Canada but will not receive any financial or logistical support from the Canadian government to travel there. They are counting on the generosity of people who empathize with them to collect the funds they need to rebuild their lives. They hope to raise at least 13,000 USD (140,000 NOK) to cover plane tickets and other travel-related expenses.

The campaign was created by their friend Julián Hidalgo, who lives in Norway, because GoFundMe does not operate in Egypt. Julián has been their friend for more than five years. If you're curious, we will share the story of their friendship in a comment!

How will the funds be used? The funds will cover relocation-related expenses, including plane tickets from Egypt to Canada for all five family members (the biggest cost), documents, suitcases, clothes, and more. The family members are:

If we surpass the goal, the extra funds will be used to cover living expenses in Canada until they can get back on their feet. All donations help greatly, no matter how small. We will publish receipts to document the use of the funds. All the money will go directly to the family, except for fees charged by GoFundMe and payment processors.

Now, this is their story as told in Ziad's own words, slightly edited for clarity and grammar:

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My name is Ziad Muhammad Orouq. I am 16 years old. I have two brothers and my mother and father. I will tell you a little about myself.

I am a diligent student. I had ambitions to become a successful and distinguished person. I always promised my mother that one day I would give her many gifts when I grew up. I am very fond of basketball. I was living beautifully by all standards. Before October 7, my family and I had a wonderful house with a beautiful sea view. It was warm and full of love, beautiful moments, and memories. Our house resembled my mother with its details. She always decorated it with hand embroidery. She wove her dreams of becoming successful just as she wove her bedspreads and clothes. She did her best for us, always assuring us that we must learn even if we did not eat. My brothers Ahmed and Amjad were in their second year of university.

She dreamed with my father of their graduation so they could help themselves and us in their lives. All this changed on October 7 when the war of genocide broke out, and we were forced to leave the house and move to a "safe area." However, there is no safe area. When the occupation invaded Al-Shifa Hospital, where our home was located, the criminals entered our house with all their brutality, heavily armed. They blew up the door with special bombs and fired a barrage of bullets. They did not leave anything behind. They stole our bed and our belongings. They urinated on our beds, throwed dirt on them, and stepped on them with their shoes. They opened fire on the picture of my late grandfather hanging on the wall and killed him again. They wrote genocidal phrases on the wall of my room, “You do not deserve to die once. You will die a thousand times.”

They wrote, “This is your bleeding blood. We will never get enough of it. We will not let you enjoy anything.” They went to my mother’s room, which had a beautiful sea view. They did not like it. They opened her wardrobe. They tore off her clothes made with her own hands. They wrote on her walls, “This sea should be theirs, and the flowers opposite are theirs.” They claimed everything as theirs. “But I tell them, ‘You have failed.’”

They used our house, like all houses, as a military barracks. Nothing was spared from them. They stayed for a long time, destroying everything. Before they left, they hit it with an artillery shell and threw incendiary bombs. Only seconds after they left, the house caught fire and was completely burned. It became ashes. Is this the most moral army in the world?!

After our displacement from home, we went to a school used as a shelter. The idea of staying there was terrifying. We faced many problems. We had very difficult days obtaining water or cooking on firewood. My family and I were forced to carry out tasks we had never imagined, not even in our worst dreams. We faced death many times. We slept in a place designated for men in the school lobby, and my mother stayed in a place for women. More than once, in the classrooms on the third floor, the school lobby was bombed several times, and each time my mother feared we would be the targets. All of this was terrifying to me, but the greatest horror was taking a shower, fearing I would be bombed while without clothes, or that the army would enter the school, arrest us, and force us to undress in front of people. It was very terrifying to think about.

My father would sometimes send me to stand in line for bread or water at a distant place. I would walk along the wall at a fast pace, feeling terror chasing me. I would cross the sidewalk, and it would follow me. I would jog, and it would jog with me. I felt it holding my shirt well. My shoulders would collide with each shell that landed. I would return carrying some bread, thinking of a new life. I often looked at my brothers and my mother as a final farewell. I wished that if death came, it would claim the souls of all of us and not leave anyone to mourn. I experienced the loss of my friends' children in the shelter. They were sleeping next to me. Pain and fear brought us together, and we drew strength from each other. We laughed in moments of fear until one of them went with his sister to collect firewood for his family to cook. They returned on a cart drawn by a donkey, carried in blood, back to the shelter. It was a day I will never forget.

After a while, we miraculously succeeded in getting out of Gaza. My mother said, “Thank God, you are fine.” We paid all the money we had left to get out, but a new struggle awaited us with living conditions, hardships, and lack of resources.

Now, a glimmer of hope has come with the possibility of going to Canada. Canada only gives us an arrival visa, but all costs are borne by people, including air tickets and travel expenses. I ask everyone who believes in the cause of our people and everyone who has the ability to help us, to please do it now. Your donation means starting over. Your donation means fulfilling my mother’s dream of building our future and our education, which the occupation deprived us of. Your donation means that we will be able to live in peace and security. Thank you so much!

Ziad