My name is Tasneem, a Palestinian mother to my little son J

“I am Tasneem… and this is Jawad”

My name is Tasneem, I’m 25 years old.

An engineer, and a mother to my two-year-old son, Jawad.

But before all of that, I’m a human being who tried to protect her child from a fire that burns only innocence.

I used to live in a country dear to my heart — everything I knew was there: my family, my memories, the call to prayer echoing in our neighborhood, the smell of fresh bread in the morning.

But war doesn’t care if you’re a mother, or if your child is just two years old, or if you have simple dreams.

War comes and crushes everything, leaving you with only two choices: die holding your baby, or run and try to survive with him.

Jawad was born in the heart of destruction.

I never got to celebrate his birth like other mothers.

I couldn’t take him to visit his grandfather or watch him take his first steps in a safe home.

He walked among ruins, played with stones stained by blood… and laughed — unaware of the meaning behind the sounds that surrounded us.

I used to hold him tightly against my chest and whisper,

“Mommy is here… don’t be scared, I’m with you.”

But Jawad would close his eyes whenever bombs roared, or when our neighbor screamed, or when the lights went out — sounds that had nothing to do with childhood.

When I finally decided to flee, I couldn’t see the road ahead — all I could see were his eyes.

And I couldn’t imagine raising him in a place where we were constantly between life and death.

So I made my decision, and I left.

I packed a small bag with my documents, wrapped Jawad in a thin scarf, and carried my heart — heavy as if I were carrying an entire house on my shoulders.

We crossed borders… on foot, in buses, through cold nights…

Strangers asked me, “Where are you from?”

And I didn’t know how to answer — because even the country I left had become a stranger to me.

We reached Egypt.

That first day… the air smelled different, the faces were new, and I held Jawad’s hand like it was the last thing I owned in the world.

I rented a small room — plain walls, but warm.

I laid Jawad on the bed and looked at him.

He was sleeping, but his little face looked tired — like a child who’d seen too much for his age.

I whispered to myself:

“God, please… give me just one chance to show him what safety feels like.”

We started to live… little by little.

Every day I learned something new — how to buy from the market without getting lost, how to stay strong in front of others but cry quietly at night.

How to choose a simple daycare for Jawad, and wait for him at the door with joy in my eyes.

I’d watch him play, run, speak Arabic with an Egyptian accent, and laugh!

His laughter was a small sun that lit up our room.

And I’d say to myself:

“You survived, Tasneem… not just the war, but the breaking too.”

I started taking him to the park — we’d eat lupin beans, ride the swings, talk about airplanes.

He loves airplanes… but he doesn’t know they used to terrify me for years.

He says: “Mama, I want to fly!”

And I hold him close and reply:

“Fly, my love… but up in the sky, not away like I did. Fly so you can dream.”

Today, after all the struggle… I can finally say:

I survived.

Not like everyone else.

Not easily.

But I did.

But life here is hard… and now, I no longer have the money to provide for my son’s most basic needs.

After many long, sleepless nights… I’ve decided to create a GoFundMe link.

This is my only hope to give my child a dignified life — to meet his basic needs and allow him the chance to grow up in peace.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart to every kind soul who wants to help us.