AneesQablan

Hello, my dear friends! ❤️ How are you all? I hope you’re doing well. Today, I wanted to share a little update from my life with you, something simple that has brought so much happiness to me and my family. ❤️ A few days ago, we had a very old, small wardrobe that was only one meter wide and one meter tall. It was the only wardrobe we had for our family of four, and honestly, it was becoming too small to fit all our clothes. So I started thinking about how we could make a bigger one that would give us more space and make things a little easier for us. I managed to borrow some wood and sheets of material, and we got to work. My brother built the new wardrobe himself, using some of the wood we already had, so we didn’t need to hire a worker or pay for labor. Thankfully, we were able to make a much bigger wardrobe, measuring two meters wide and two meters tall! ❤️ The total cost was around $90, including the fees. I know that $90 is not a small amount, but when I saw the finished wardrobe and how happy my family was, I felt that all the effort was worth it. ❤️ To some people, it might seem like just a wardrobe, but for us, it means so much more. Going from a tiny wardrobe measuring just one meter by one meter to a much larger one measuring two meters wide and two meters tall has made a real difference for our family. Amid all the difficult circumstances we are living through in Gaza, this simple thing has brought us genuine happiness. Sometimes, the things that may seem ordinary to others feel like a big achievement to us, because we are doing our best to improve our lives with whatever we have. My dear friends, I am truly grateful to every person who has stood by us, checked on us, supported us, or even kept us in their prayers. ❤️ Your kindness and care remind us that we are not alone. I wanted to share this little part of our lives with you because you are part of our journey. I want you to hear about our happy moments, too, not only the difficult ones. And today, I wanted to share our happiness over our new wardrobe with you! ❤️ May God bring happiness to your hearts just as you have brought happiness to ours, and may He reward you many times over for all the kindness you have shown us. I hope the coming days bring better news and more reasons for all of us to smile. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for being part of Circle of Hope. ❤️ With love and gratitude, Anees Qablan

500,000 people in Gaza are at risk of losing food assistance… How will families manage to survive? On October 19, it was announced that monthly food assistance in Gaza would be reduced from 1.6 million people to 1.1 million due to funding shortages. As winter approaches, thousands of families continue to face displacement, fear, and a lack of basic necessities. Here in Gaza, the suffering doesn't end when the headlines fade. We are still struggling to survive and secure our daily needs amid conditions that offer little safety or stability. Your support means more to us than you can imagine. If you're able to contribute to my campaign, whether through a one-time donation or monthly support, your help will make a real difference in securing our basic needs and easing some of the burdens we face. If you're unable to donate, sharing the campaign could help it reach someone who can. Thank you to everyone who has stood by us, checked on us, and remembered us amid everything happening around us. Your support gives us hope when we need it most. Circle of Hope — Anees Qablan

I was born in Khan Younis, in the Gaza Strip, in 2005. And when I try to put into order everything my generation has lived through in just 21 years, I sometimes feel that we did not live one lifetime… but many lifetimes, one after another. 2005 — I was one year old. Israel withdrew its settlements from inside the Gaza Strip. For a moment, many people felt that perhaps things could be different, and that there might be a chance for a quieter life. 2006 — I was one year old. Palestinian elections were held, followed by an increasingly difficult political and economic period. The blockade gradually began to impose itself on every detail of our lives. 2007 — I was two years old. The Palestinian political division and the tightening of the blockade on Gaza. From then on, crossings, electricity, fuel, and travel became everyday realities controlling the lives of more than two million people. 2008–2009 — I was 3–4 years old. The first Israeli war on Gaza that I lived through, although I was far too young to understand what war meant. I did not yet have the words to describe what was happening, but the fear was there before I even knew its name. 2012 — I was seven years old. Another war on Gaza. Only a few days, but enough to bring back the sounds of aircraft, explosions, and fear. 2014 — I was nine years old. Fifty-one days of war. This was the first war I could remember clearly. The bombing, displacement, fear, destruction, and the faces of people we knew—faces that suddenly became names in the news. From that war onward, war was no longer something I heard about from adults. It became something I experienced and remembered. 2018–2019 — I was 13–14 years old. The Great March of Return protests along Gaza’s border, confrontations, and the deaths and injuries of large numbers of people, while the blockade continued and life became even harder. 2021 — I was 16 years old. Another war, lasting 11 days. The same sound of aircraft. The same long nights. And the same question that grew up with us: How long will this continue? 2022 — I was 17 years old. Another escalation and another round of bombardment. We had begun measuring the years by what happened in them, trying to remember: Which escalation was that? How old were we then? 2023 — I was 18 years old. October 7 happened, and Gaza entered one of the most devastating wars in its modern history. 2023–2026 — From 18 to 21 years old. Three years that words cannot fully describe. During those years, I lost my brother. I lost relatives, friends, and people I loved. I experienced loss, displacement, hunger, fear, and destruction. I watched homes disappear, neighborhoods change beyond recognition, and families lose the people they loved and the lives they had built. And today, in 2026, I am 21 years old. In just 21 years, I have lived through: The withdrawal and evacuation of settlements, elections and political division, the blockade, the wars of 2008–2009, 2012, 2014, and 2021, countless escalations in between, and then October 7, 2023, followed by years of war, destruction, and loss. A generation born hearing about hope… only to grow up memorizing the years of war. Our childhood was not normal. Our adolescence was not normal. And our youth was not normal. And yet, we studied. We worked. We loved. We dreamed. Some of us got married and had children. And every time, we tried to begin our lives again, even when life kept forcing us back to zero. Perhaps that is why it is so difficult to explain to someone who has never lived in Gaza what it means to be from Gaza. Gaza is not simply the place where I was born. Gaza is carrying, at the age of 21, memories that are enough to fill more than one lifetime.