Help Reema and her family survive genocide

I'm Khari Franklin and I'm hosting this fundraiser for my family friend Reema.

Read her story:

My name is Reema Rajab Abu Dahi. I’m twenty years old, and I’m from Palestine Gaza. Two years ago, I was a young woman full of hope and dreams. I had finished high school with a high grade, and I was so excited to start university one of my dreams. I wanted to build a better future for myself and support my family. But then the war came suddenly and shattered everything: my safety, my education, my dreams, and even my hope.

When the war began, we had to flee our home for the first time. We could only grab a few things in our back bags as we escaped the terrifying sounds of explosions, smoke, and gunfire. We left behind everything our home, our memories, and our life. Every step was filled with fear, not knowing if we would survive the next moment. For nine long months, we lived away from home, we lived in our relevant’s house with other 4 families, we faced hunger, freezing nights that made us shiver, and the constant anxiety of not knowing what tomorrow would bring. Every day was a struggle just to survive, and every night we prayed for a better day that seemed so far away.

After those nine months, a brief ceasefire allowed us to return home. Our house was partly damaged, but we clung to what was left. We patched up the walls and salvaged what furniture we could, we covered the broken windows with nylon, it was hard, but we were satisfied at least the war finally finished. But the hope didn’t last. The war grew worse again, and we had to flee a second time, this time was much harder because we felt that we’ll never getting back. Then came the heartbreaking news our home was completely destroyed by bombs. There was nowhere to return to. Our city, Rafah, once full of life and laughter, was now rubble and dust, only our memories and some pictures remained.

Now, we live in a run-down rented apartment with rent so high we can barely afford it. The walls are cracked, the floors worn, but it’s the only place we can call “home” in a world full of fear and hardship. My mother struggles every day despite her illness — allergies and sinus problems, yet she sets for hours cooking in front of smoke and flames, forcing herself to endure it all so we can eat. Her hands are worn, her body tired, but she never complains. I see the weight of her love in every movement she makes. My father does everything he can to provide for us and pay the rent, but prices are so high that most nights we go to bed hungry, praying the next day will be easier.

My siblings suffer in their own ways. Rama, 19, has been stuck in high school for two years, unsure if she can continue her studies or apply for a scholarship. Sara, 15, had to stop school completely, and I see the sadness in her eyes as she dreams of a normal life. Yara, 12, and my little brother Foad, 6, instead of living their childhood they suffer from severe malnutrition. They’ve lost weight and energy, their bright smiles dimmed by hunger. Every day I watch their small bodies struggle, and my heart breaks because there’s so little, I can do to protect them from this pain.

And me Reema the girl whose dreams were bigger than all this destruction, I feel trapped between a harsh reality and a future that seems lost. My dream of university is gone, and my hopes for study and work have turned into memories. But even in the darkest moments, a small spark of hope inside me refuses to die. I dream of going back to school one day, achieving my goals, and helping my siblings reclaim their education and childhood.

My story isn’t just about a family who lost their home. It’s about dreams burned by bombs, daily suffering, and my mother’s tireless sacrifices to keep us alive. We long for safety, for a chance to dream again, and for the dignity of a normal life. All we ask is for someone to reach out to us in this darkness to give us hope and a chance to live with dignity and purpose.