"13 September, 2025 was the eighth time I’ve been displaced.
After surviving 21 months of relentless bombardments in Gaza City with my 3-year-old daughter, I made the heartbreaking decision to flee to the south. I left behind everything: the grave of my husband, the rubble of our home, and the city where I grew up, laughed, loved, and lived the best moments of my life.
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I’m someone who used to love mornings. But for nearly two years now, my mornings have been heavy, filled not with sunlight and peace, but with scenes that break me a little more each day. I pass children sleeping on sidewalks, their heads resting on pillows next to sewage-filled streets. Families with nothing, not even a cloth to call a tent, sit under the open sky, waiting for a miracle. But there are none. Most of these children and their families are suffering from extreme hunger; many have fled famine—only to find themselves moving from one nightmare to another.
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I began working with Save the Children as a multimedia specialist in August. It’s my job to communicate the stories of children who are living through the daily horrors of this war and the unending efforts of their parents and caregivers to do all they can to ensure their survival. As a humanitarian, I try to help my people while I, too, am one of them.
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I want to be honest: after two years, I am tired. I am not the strong woman the world loves to praise in headlines. I’m not a superhero. I am a woman who lost her husband, my partner, my home, my past. He was killed in the first two weeks. We were having breakfast together when a wave of intense carpet bombing struck nearby. We ran to the ground floor, I was holding his hand in one arm, and our baby in the other. In just two seconds, everything changed. He moved from standing beside me to standing in front of us. He opened his arms wide, and then the world turned grey and red. His body became our shield. He absorbed the shrapnel with his own flesh, protecting me and our daughter in the most selfless act of love. Just like the heroes in the movies, he gave his life to save ours. He died a hero, not in fiction, but in reality, shielding his wife and only child. At age 31 he left us, before we even knew what we were facing. And I haven’t had the space or time to properly grieve.
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And yet, even in the chaos, my daughter’s eyes, the same as her father’s, keep me going. They remind me that we are still here. That we are still surviving. But we are not whole and not healed.
My daughter is my support system. I dream of a future for her that is free from war, famine, and loss — a future where she can live the kind of childhood that, for many children here, exists only on screens."
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