Doaa’s Family: Struggling to Survive the Heartbreak of War"

Hayoot has the right to live in safety

Her name is Hayoot, as if she was born to remind us that life can bloom even amidst destruction. We waited for her for eleven years, filling our home with prayers and tears until God blessed us with her. She was our light, our joy, and our only hope in a world that had turned against us.

But war does not let hope grow.

On October 7th, everything was stolen from us. Our home, which once held our dreams, was reduced to rubble. The laughter that used to fill its walls was silenced beneath the wreckage. I had dreamed of Hayat growing up in warmth and love, but instead, she has only known fear, hunger, and displacement.

We fled, searching for safety, but in Gaza, no place is safe. From the north to the south, from the south to the heart of destruction, it was as if war was chasing us. Every time the bombing paused, we let ourselves believe, just for a moment, that the nightmare was over. We would return to search through the ruins, trying to piece together the remnants of our lives. But in Gaza, peace is an illusion. The war returns, the hunger returns, the fear returns—an endless cycle of suffering.

The borders are closed, aid is scarce, and the bread that was once a simple right has become an unattainable dream. I watch Hayat cry from hunger, and I have nothing to offer her. My husband was a teacher, nurturing hope in the hearts of children, but now he has no job, no income, no way to provide for us. Prices skyrocket daily, and the little food available is far beyond our reach. How can a family survive without a home, without food, without even the hope of a better tomorrow?

We live between tents and the ruins of destroyed houses. The cold seeps into our bones, the rain leaks into the spaces where we sleep, and the air is thick with dust and despair. My little Hayat does not know what a “home” is—she only knows what it means to keep running, to search for shelter every time the place we hide in is bombed again.

Night after night, I tell Hayat stories of a beautiful world, of a warm home, of food on the table, of mornings where the sound of explosions does not shake the ground beneath us. But she is young—she looks at me with tired eyes, as if asking, When will this world come? And I have no answer to give.

I am exhausted. Exhausted from running, from hunger, from the cruel cycle of hope that is born in moments of calm only to be slaughtered with the next missile. I want only one thing: for Hayat to live, to grow, to dream—to know life as more than just a fight for survival.

To everyone reading my words, I beg you—do not let us disappear like so many before us. Hayoot needs you. Any donation, no matter how small, could give her a meal, could warm her tiny body, could be the reason she survives. Please, help us stay alive. Help Hayat live.