<div>Hello, my name is <strong>Sahar Ismail</strong>. I am 22 years old, a translation student, and I live in Gaza with my family. I have a younger sister, <strong>Yasmeen</strong>, who is 19, and three younger brothers: <strong>Mohammad</strong>, 17, <strong>Abood</strong>, 15, and <strong>Omar</strong>, 13. My <strong>father</strong>, aged 55, suffers from <em>high blood pressure and heart disease</em> and requires medical treatment and care. My amazing <strong>mother</strong>, who holds our family together, is 45.
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<div>Since October 7, like so many in <strong>Gaza</strong>, my family and I have endured unimaginable pain and loss. In a matter of days, <strong>we lost everything</strong>—our home, our belongings, our clothes, the places where we laughed and made memories. We lost family and friends, people who shaped our lives. Even my little birds, who brought me so much joy, are gone. It hurts deeply that I couldn’t save them. Among the things I grieve the most are my childhood photos—tiny pieces of my past that I can never get back..
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<div>On October 25, 2023, at 9 PM, <strong>our lives were nearly stolen from us. </strong>The building we called home was bombed while we were inside. We lived on the ground floor and somehow, through sheer terror and desperation, we managed to escape. We fled to my uncle’s house, shaken to our core. I cannot describe the fear of that night. The <em>sound</em> of the explosion, the chaos, the screams—those memories haunt me every day. I thank God every day we’re still alive, but the scars of that night will stay with us <em>forever</em>.
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<div>Since that day, we have been <strong>displaced over nine times</strong>, moving from one shattered shelter to another. Bombs fall all around us, turning everything we know into rubble. We’ve lived in hospitals, overcrowded homes of relatives, and now we find ourselves in a flimsy <strong>tent</strong> in Deir Al-Balah.
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<div>This <strong>tent</strong> is no home. It offers <strong>no protection</strong> from the blistering summer heat or the bone-chilling winter cold. In the summer, it felt like we were sitting in an oven, suffocated by the heat. Insects crawl over everything, sand blows in from every direction, and there’s no escape. There are no walls to lean on, no beds to rest on, no kitchen to cook in, and no bathroom for even the smallest dignity. And <strong>winter is coming</strong>… I can’t even imagine what it will bring…
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<div>This year was supposed to be one of celebration for me—I was meant to <strong>graduate</strong>. But the war has robbed me and my sister Yasmeen, who was in her <em>first</em> year at Al-Azhar University, of our <em>education</em> and <em>dreams</em>. The university, where we spent so many hopeful days, is now destroyed. My brothers, who were still in school, have also lost an entire academic year because their schools no longer exist. The war <strong>has stolen</strong> not just our present but our <strong>future!!</strong>
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<div>Yasmeen and I had also saved up for <em>Lasik</em> surgery, <strong>something we had both been waiting for</strong>. We managed to pay for it, but before we could have the procedure, the Eye Centre was destroyed in the bombings. Every small step we tried to take forward has been <strong>crushed</strong> by the war.
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<div>Now, we live in conditions no human being should ever have to endure. There is no clean water, barely any food (canned food mostly), no electricity, and no internet. Even cooking gas is impossible to find. The flour we manage to get is infested with worms and weevils, but we have no choice but to sift it and use it because there’s simply nothing else to eat. I never thought we would reach this level of desperation, but here we are…
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<div>This war has gone on too long. We are living in constant fear, with our mental health hanging by a thread. We are trapped in a nightmare with no end in sight, and hope feels like a distant dream. Gaza has become a cage with no safe place left. But we still dream—we dream of safety, of education, of a chance to live… but not here anymore.
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<div>To leave Gaza, we need approximately <strong>$7,000–$10,000 per person</strong> to cross the Rafah border. Today, I humbly come to you with a heavy heart to <strong>ask for your help</strong>. Your support could be our beacon of hope. Every dollar makes a difference. If you are able to donate, we would be deeply grateful. If you cannot donate, sharing our GoFundMe campaign with others who might be able to help would mean the world to us. <strong>Thank you from the bottom of our hearts for any support you can offer. It truly makes a difference. </strong>♥️
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Help Sahar’s Family to Evacuate from Gaza

Help Sahar’s Family to Evacuate from Gaza

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