My name odai atef hassan

Father of wafaa and hamoud

Wafaa and Hamoud, siblings with cerebral palsy, live in displacement tents in Gaza, struggling daily to adjust to a life that is far from the normalcy they desperately crave. Their mother, Basma, does everything she can to care for them, but life in the overcrowded refugee camps is a constant battle against adversity.

The tents are small, suffocating in the summer heat and freezing during the winter nights. They provide little shelter from the relentless elements, and every rainstorm turns the ground to mud, making it even harder for Wafaa and Hamoud to move around with their wheelchairs. Inside, the air is filled with dust, which settles on the few possessions they have managed to keep. The noise of the camp is constant—children crying, people shouting, and in the distance, the ominous echoes of war.

Basma tries her best to create a sense of home within the thin canvas walls, but the reality is that their lives are defined by what they lack. Clean water is scarce, making hygiene a constant worry, especially for her children whose needs are more complex. Medical care is almost impossible to come by; the camp’s clinic is overwhelmed, and essential medications and therapy sessions are often out of reach.

For Wafaa and Hamoud, every day is a struggle. Hamoud, the older of the two, loves to draw. He sketches on whatever scraps of paper he can find, often drawing pictures of a home he can only imagine—a place with sturdy walls, a roof that doesn’t leak, and a quiet room where he can create without the constant interruption of war. Wafaa, who dreams of dancing, spends her days watching the other children play outside, knowing that the uneven ground and her uncooperative legs will not allow her to join them.

Their displacement has stripped them of the simplest comforts. Nights are the hardest; the sounds of explosions and gunfire pierce through the thin walls of their tent, making sleep a distant luxury. Basma holds her children close, whispering reassurances she doesn’t always believe herself. Her heart aches as she watches them grow more weary with each passing day, their spirits dimming under the weight of their circumstances.

Basma reaches out for help for anything that might ease the burden on her family. But in Gaza, where resources are scarce and the needs are overwhelming, her cries often go unanswered. The aid that does arrive is never enough, and the waiting list for proper medical care seems endless.

Wafaa and Hamoud's story is one of quiet suffering, of a family caught between the cruelty of war and the indifference of the world. They are not just children with disabilities; they are children who, despite everything, still cling to their dreams—a real home, proper care, a chance to simply be kids. Their story is a call for help, a reminder that behind every displacement tent is a life that deserves more than just survival. They need stability, medical support, and most of all, they need the world to see their struggle and respond with compassion and action.