Please help Bushra and her children get their life back.

Hi, my name is Joanne and I have started this gofundme to help a beautiful mother I met get her life back. Every child deserves to grow up without fear of bombing and displacement. Unfortunately for bushra and her family, coming from Gaza , their life has been filled with fear, bombings and displacement. Below, in her own words you can read her horrifying story. Please help me give her family some hope. Thank you. Any money raised will be used to help Bushra start her life here, help to keep her children with food and medical support whilst still in Gaza and hopefully in the future she gets to reunite with them.

When I was just three years old my father was diagnosed with prostrate cancer. He spent the next three years traveling abroad for treatment, coming home for a month, then gone for three. I was six when he passed away. His illness and his absence, left me an only child.

At the time I believed that losing my father would be the greatest sorrow I would ever know. I was wrong.

Real hardship began as I grew old enough to understand the quiet suffering of my mother - how she tried to mask her pain and carry our world on trembling shoulders, still, she never gave up. Neither did I.

I studied. I graduated from university. I married - by God's grace and my mother's sacrifices. She gave her all to see me succeed.

But nothing in my life came easy. The road was never smooth. I worked tirelessly, through exhaustion and hardship. My husband and I began our life in a rented home, slowly, painfully building our way up to owning a modest house and a car.

We were blessed with four children- two sons and two daughters. They were my joy, my redemption, my reward for every tear I shed in silence. I vowed they would never taste the bitterness I had known.

Then came the cursed war.

It stole everything, our home, our car, our safety, and even the very air we breathed.

On October 20, 2023 we were living in Al - Zahraa, our house was furnished. We were still paying off in monthly installments - until a missile erased it from existence. It was flattened. The car too, was destroyed. Nothing left behind, not even a trace to mourn.

I cried for the years of labour my husband and I had poured into that home. But I told him, I told the children "We can rebuild. We can repay. But nothing matters more than you. Please, just stay alive"

So began our journey of displacement. We were forced to flee nine times. Three times we were evacuated without warning, taking nothing - buying new supplies, only to lose them again. Eventually, we fled to the south of Khan Younis, told it was a "green zone" a safe place.

But July 23 was the blackest day of my life.

Our tent was bombed.

We were all injured, I gasped for breath and struggled to stand. I looked around and saw my husband on the ground, my youngest son beside him and my eight year old daughter - bloodied and silent.

In that moment, I faced an impossible choice. Who do I save first?

My son's leg had fallen limp from my arms. He slipped into unconsciousness, blood pouring from his small body. I screamed. I begged my neighbour, paralysed with fear - to help. He finally agreed, and we laid my son in a wooden box on his bicycle. He pedalled away toward the hospital, a journey of two hours, while I remained - wounded, dazed, searching for strength I didn't know I had.

I returned to my husband, still alive,but barely. I told him everyone was okay, even though my heart was breaking. I needed him to stay strong.

Suddenly a water truck appeared. I threw myself in front of it, pleading with the driver to help me. The two of us carried my husband into the vehicle and off they went.

Then I turned back. The ground was soaked in blood. Two other bodies lay nearby - one decapitated, the other with his chest torn open. I tried to resuscitate but they were already gone. A donkey cart arrived and we placed the bodies inside.

I found my daughter bleeding and in pain. I carried her in my arms, walking all the way to the hospital. I left her at the emergency entrance and ran inside, searching for my husband and son.

They told me

My son Mohammad was in surgery. My husband .... was martyred

The world shattered

There are no words for that moment. The sky didn't just fall. I fell with it. I went silent. For forty days I did not speak a word. I buried my husband. I buried a piece of my son....his leg. I stayed with him for months in the hospital, alone, far from my other children. No visitors, no support.

Eventually we returned to a tent. I hated every breath inside it. But what choice did I have?

Then came a glimmer of hope. My son was approved for medical treatment abroad. His other leg had nerve damage. He couldn't walk, couldn't play, couldn't be the energetic child he once was.

But once again - I was forced to choose

Only one child could travel. The others had to stay behind. Do I abandon my children to the war, or deny my injured son the chance to heal.?

As a mother, I made the hardest decision of my life, I chose to travel.

We went to Egypt for three months, then Ireland. And though I am far from bombs,I am buried under the weight of grief, of distance, of separation . My children - orphans of both their father and now, in a way, of their mother - remain in a land soaked with war, hunger and fear.

They are in pain I am in pain.

And I ask you

What would you do if you were me?

I need strength

I need guidance

I need hope

Bushra