<div>My name is Renad , a mother of four children. I live in Gaza with my husband and kids, where war has become an inseparable part of our lives, and fear is our constant companion. I gave birth to my youngest daughter five months ago. Now, she sleeps in my arms, shivering from the merciless cold. Her tiny body is covered with a thin blanket that barely shields her from the harsh winter, while her three siblings’ eyes search for safety amidst the destruction.

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<div>Leila, my eldest daughter, once dreamed of playing like any other child. But now, she is my partner in struggle. She has taken on responsibilities far beyond her age, as if her childhood was forcibly taken from her. She helps me wash clothes, shares with me the task of rationing bread, and assists her father in fetching water, which has become so scarce. We share the pain, trying to piece together the fragments of our shattered lives and build some semblance of stability in a world that crumbles around us every day.

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<div>As for Sidra, our eight-year-old, the innocence of her childhood has faded. Her eyes are filled with fear, and her voice trembles as she asks me, “Will we be safe today, Mama?” She has become terrified of going outside because, here in Gaza, there is no place that is truly safe. Even the sound of the wind makes her shudder because she knows it might carry the echoes of missiles.

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<div>Adam, my youngest son, is still at the age of dreams and play. He constantly asks us, “Where are my toys, Mama?” How can I explain to him that I had to leave them behind every time we fled? That our bag could only hold the bare essentials? Each time we pack our few belongings, we leave behind a house, memories, and cherished things. It’s as if the war doesn’t just steal our safety but takes every detail of our lives with it.

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<div>My infant daughter, Julia, shivers from the cold and rain as I watch her with a heart torn by pain. Her tiny body cannot bear the inadequate care I provide, and I suffer from anemia that leaves me unable to meet her nutritional needs through breastfeeding. Amidst the soaring prices that suffocate me like a nightmare, I cannot afford her most basic necessities the milk that nourishes her and the diapers that keep her comfortable. My heart aches as I see her suffer, wishing I had all the strength in the world to protect her and give her the warmth she deserves.

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</div>It has only begun again—in the form of hunger, helplessness, and fear.

I have a baby, a tiny soul who knows nothing of this world’s cruelty, yet she cries from hunger, from the cold.
She cries because I can’t give her what she needs. How do I explain to her that my hands are empty?

We have lost everything—the home that once sheltered us, the job that once supported us.
And now, we have no shelter, no income, nothing but sorrow and fear for the days ahead.
We cannot live like this. My child cannot grow up in a world that has stripped her of even her most basic rights.

I cry out, not for myself, but for my children—for my little one, who knows nothing but tears.
Is there anyone who hears me? Is there anyone who is willing to help?

I beg you, please donate, even if just a little. Share our story with your friends.
Tell them about my family, about my baby girl.
Your kindness could be the difference between her suffering and her survival.
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Leslie Bennett

Kathleen M Morris

Indu Mulligan

Geneva Rainsforth

The war is over , but my suffering hasn’t ended

Still £23,097 to go. Help us build momentum.