A Hand to Heal, A Heart to Help

I am Kholoud, a mother of four children, and the mother of a little girl named Jouri—she should have filled the world with laughter and play. But she grew up too soon, among the ruins of war and the tears of loss. The war didn’t just demolish homes; it tore apart our souls and displaced us into the unknown, searching for shelter with nothing above us but the sky.

My Body Screams… But There Is No Cure

Endometriosis is eating me from the inside, and uterine prolapse makes every step feel like walking on blades. The bleeding is relentless, and the pain never sleeps. I need urgent surgery—but where? In Gaza, there are no functioning hospitals, no open borders, only growing pain and fading hope. Sometimes, I feel like I’m slowly melting away in front of my children’s eyes, and no one can pull me out of this crushing helplessness.

We Returned… But the House Was Gone

During the truce, we returned with a glimmer of hope—only to find ashes. Our home, once a refuge filled with memories, was now blackened dust. How can I explain to Jouri that her toys were burned, her bed no longer exists, that the house is no longer a home?

A Cry in the Face of Silence

I’m not asking for the impossible. I just want to live, to treat my pain before it takes my life, to give my children a safe corner in this cruel world. Even the smallest contribution can make a difference. I am not seeking pity—only a heart that listens, a hand that reaches out to lift us from this nightmare back into life.