Help Muhannad Yousef and his children
United Kingdom
Hello all, i am alishba from London. I am friends with muhanad, and have made this campaign on his behalf. All funds will be directly transferred to his account. Here is his message to you all:
To the American people, and to the people of Europe and beyond—
A heartfelt message to those with kind hearts
My name is Mohannad Youssef. I’m 28 years old.
I have three children: Youssef (6 years old), Jouri (5 years old), and Julia—who was born during the war. She is now a year and a half old.
I used to live near the ceasefire line, what is now called the “buffer zone.”
The Israeli border wall was my closest neighbor.
I had land and a beautiful home. I planted the land with my own hands—filled it with trees and flowers.
One day, violent explosions shook everything.
I begged my family to leave. I told them it was dangerous and we shouldn’t stay.
But my father, in his usual calm, said:
“I will not leave the house or the land. You know we are civilians. The Israeli army will not hurt us.”
I took my children and fled.
My wife was in her ninth month of pregnancy—she was due on October 24, just days after the war began.
We fled on foot. My wife could barely walk.
Missiles and shells were raining from above.
And what I’m about to tell you… I still can’t believe it happened.
There were massive, violent explosions in our neighborhood.
Those who survived told me what happened.
That horrifying blast erased my family, my home, and my land.
Later, I was told the bomb carried the American flag, and a star—the star that is said to symbolize hope.
But for us, that star means nothing but terror.
That “hope” is what killed everyone I loved.
My family remained under the rubble.
Their bodies decomposed there—and they are still under the ruins to this day, because the Israeli army controls the area and no one can reach them.
And now, built over the ruins of my house and land—
Over the bodies of my loved ones.
At the time, I didn’t know that the aircraft which dropped the bomb that destroyed my world was an F-35, made in America.
I had seen those jets before—hovering over us like predators watching their prey.
And when they strike, everything changes in an instant.
The F-35 is one of the most advanced warplanes in the world.
It can carry bombs that wipe out entire neighborhoods.
They told me the plane was Israeli—but who made it? America.
From factories like Lockheed Martin, Boeing, and General Dynamics.
And I wonder about the workers in those factories—
Do they know what their hands have made?
Do they know that the weapons they assembled tore apart my family?
Destroyed my home? Took my leg?
Or is it just a “job,” a “paycheck”—unaware that children were buried alive because of what they built?
My father was a kind man. He never held a weapon in his life.
He loved the land, cared for animals, raised birds and sheep, and treated them when they were sick.
He taught me to be kind, to help others, and to believe that goodness still exists in this world.
But the world did not return his kindness.
It took him from me. It took my mother and sisters too.
My mother—the one who lovingly baked bread for us—is gone. And she’s not coming back.
My brother Moayad survived. He was outside the house with his wife and daughter at the time of the bombing.
Since that day, he doesn’t speak much.
He just hugs me tightly, as if afraid he might lose me too.
For a long time, I didn’t know who survived, who died, who was displaced.
No communication. No way to reach anyone
And despite all that, the kind people of Gaza never abandoned me.
They shared the little they had.
I saw someone give a piece of bread to a child, or cover us with a blanket on a cold night.
That is all that remains of the world’s warmth—the hearts of Gaza’s people.
But here’s another truth we live every day:
We are not only killed by bombs.
I heard American doctors who came to Gaza and saw everything with their own eyes.
They wrote letters to President Biden, begging him to listen.
They said children here—just two years old—are being targeted by Israeli snipers.
Bullets to the forehead, or the side of the head, or upper chest.
These snipers are known for their accuracy. These are not mistakes.
And when you see how many children have the exact same injuries—you understand the truth:
It’s deliberate targeting.
And yet, we hear Biden and Trump talk about “compassion.”
But we know—their compassion doesn’t include us.
They don’t mention the names of those we lost.
They don’t talk about my mother, my father, my sisters.
They send us bombs—then ignore even the names of their victims.
I’m not alone.
There are thousands like me—families wiped out, children who lost limbs, dreams that were burned.
And still, we try to reach you.
From Gaza, we share our stories, we plead with you to see us.
To realize that what is happening here is not a natural disaster—but a genocide, happening before the eyes of the world
I don’t understand how you can watch us—and continue with your lives.
I have lost most of my family.
My uncle too—his wife, his children, his grandchildren. An entire family—wiped out.
And my mother’s brother—was killed trying to gather aid from an American center.
All he wanted was food for his children.
And my wife’s relatives.
And many of my friends.
How many more people must die before this war ends?
How many more children?
I feel like I’m screaming into a void.
As if we’re just images on your screens—characters in a distant movie.
But we are real. This is our real life.
Today, I have no home. No land. No family.
And the pain continues.
I see entire families erased from existence.
And we are still here—waiting for you to stop choosing our next killer, and start choosing justice.
We are not asking for pity.
All we are asking for is to live—as you do:
In safety, with our families, and a glimmer of hope.
We have shown you the truth.
We’ve shared our faces, our stories, our pain.
And all we ask: Don’t look away.
Don’t pretend this is normal.
We are here.
Waiting for you to see us—before there is no one left to save.
There was a song my children loved.
I want you to hear it.
Its name is: “Give Us Childhood.”
Every time I hear it, I think of my children—and of all the children of Gaza, Syria, Lebanon—
All the childhoods bombed beneath the sky of war.
It’s a song for the whole world. It asks only to be heard.
Its words are simple, but from the heart:
> “I’m a father, and I have something to say—listen to me.
I want my children to play. Why won’t you let them?
Their doors are waiting for them. Some were martyred.
Some dream of going back to their school that no longer exists.
Their hearts are small—and they plead: Give them a chance.”
When they sing it, I feel they are speaking on behalf of every child in Gaza.
For every missing friend. For every shattered family.
And I—along with my children, and all the children of Gaza—
We beg you:
Give them a chance.
Just one chance to be children.
To laugh.
To play.
To look toward tomorrow without fear.
From my heart, I ask you:
Listen to this song.
Hear their cries—not as distant words,
But as the voice of a child asking for the simplest thing:
A chance to live. Give us a chance. Give us peace.
Please, donate generously to support my family—help us rebuild a brighter future for our children after nearly two years of genocide. Donate now so we can start a new life outside Gaza.
Anonymous
2
-
$5,000.00
Funding Goal -
$0.00
Funds Raised -
0
Days to go -
Campaign Never Ends
Campaign End Method
Product Description
United Kingdom
Hello all, i am alishba from London. I am friends with muhanad, and have made this campaign on his behalf. All funds will be directly transferred to his account. Here is his message to you all:
To the American people, and to the people of Europe and beyond—
A heartfelt message to those with kind hearts
My name is Mohannad Youssef. I’m 28 years old.
I have three children: Youssef (6 years old), Jouri (5 years old), and Julia—who was born during the war. She is now a year and a half old.
I used to live near the ceasefire line, what is now called the “buffer zone.”
The Israeli border wall was my closest neighbor.
I had land and a beautiful home. I planted the land with my own hands—filled it with trees and flowers.
One day, violent explosions shook everything.
I begged my family to leave. I told them it was dangerous and we shouldn’t stay.
But my father, in his usual calm, said:
“I will not leave the house or the land. You know we are civilians. The Israeli army will not hurt us.”
I took my children and fled.
My wife was in her ninth month of pregnancy—she was due on October 24, just days after the war began.
We fled on foot. My wife could barely walk.
Missiles and shells were raining from above.
And what I’m about to tell you… I still can’t believe it happened.
There were massive, violent explosions in our neighborhood.
Those who survived told me what happened.
That horrifying blast erased my family, my home, and my land.
Later, I was told the bomb carried the American flag, and a star—the star that is said to symbolize hope.
But for us, that star means nothing but terror.
That “hope” is what killed everyone I loved.
My family remained under the rubble.
Their bodies decomposed there—and they are still under the ruins to this day, because the Israeli army controls the area and no one can reach them.
And now, built over the ruins of my house and land—
Over the bodies of my loved ones.
At the time, I didn’t know that the aircraft which dropped the bomb that destroyed my world was an F-35, made in America.
I had seen those jets before—hovering over us like predators watching their prey.
And when they strike, everything changes in an instant.
The F-35 is one of the most advanced warplanes in the world.
It can carry bombs that wipe out entire neighborhoods.
They told me the plane was Israeli—but who made it? America.
From factories like Lockheed Martin, Boeing, and General Dynamics.
And I wonder about the workers in those factories—
Do they know what their hands have made?
Do they know that the weapons they assembled tore apart my family?
Destroyed my home? Took my leg?
Or is it just a “job,” a “paycheck”—unaware that children were buried alive because of what they built?
My father was a kind man. He never held a weapon in his life.
He loved the land, cared for animals, raised birds and sheep, and treated them when they were sick.
He taught me to be kind, to help others, and to believe that goodness still exists in this world.
But the world did not return his kindness.
It took him from me. It took my mother and sisters too.
My mother—the one who lovingly baked bread for us—is gone. And she’s not coming back.
My brother Moayad survived. He was outside the house with his wife and daughter at the time of the bombing.
Since that day, he doesn’t speak much.
He just hugs me tightly, as if afraid he might lose me too.
For a long time, I didn’t know who survived, who died, who was displaced.
No communication. No way to reach anyone
And despite all that, the kind people of Gaza never abandoned me.
They shared the little they had.
I saw someone give a piece of bread to a child, or cover us with a blanket on a cold night.
That is all that remains of the world’s warmth—the hearts of Gaza’s people.
But here’s another truth we live every day:
We are not only killed by bombs.
I heard American doctors who came to Gaza and saw everything with their own eyes.
They wrote letters to President Biden, begging him to listen.
They said children here—just two years old—are being targeted by Israeli snipers.
Bullets to the forehead, or the side of the head, or upper chest.
These snipers are known for their accuracy. These are not mistakes.
And when you see how many children have the exact same injuries—you understand the truth:
It’s deliberate targeting.
And yet, we hear Biden and Trump talk about “compassion.”
But we know—their compassion doesn’t include us.
They don’t mention the names of those we lost.
They don’t talk about my mother, my father, my sisters.
They send us bombs—then ignore even the names of their victims.
I’m not alone.
There are thousands like me—families wiped out, children who lost limbs, dreams that were burned.
And still, we try to reach you.
From Gaza, we share our stories, we plead with you to see us.
To realize that what is happening here is not a natural disaster—but a genocide, happening before the eyes of the world
I don’t understand how you can watch us—and continue with your lives.
I have lost most of my family.
My uncle too—his wife, his children, his grandchildren. An entire family—wiped out.
And my mother’s brother—was killed trying to gather aid from an American center.
All he wanted was food for his children.
And my wife’s relatives.
And many of my friends.
How many more people must die before this war ends?
How many more children?
I feel like I’m screaming into a void.
As if we’re just images on your screens—characters in a distant movie.
But we are real. This is our real life.
Today, I have no home. No land. No family.
And the pain continues.
I see entire families erased from existence.
And we are still here—waiting for you to stop choosing our next killer, and start choosing justice.
We are not asking for pity.
All we are asking for is to live—as you do:
In safety, with our families, and a glimmer of hope.
We have shown you the truth.
We’ve shared our faces, our stories, our pain.
And all we ask: Don’t look away.
Don’t pretend this is normal.
We are here.
Waiting for you to see us—before there is no one left to save.
There was a song my children loved.
I want you to hear it.
Its name is: “Give Us Childhood.”
Every time I hear it, I think of my children—and of all the children of Gaza, Syria, Lebanon—
All the childhoods bombed beneath the sky of war.
It’s a song for the whole world. It asks only to be heard.
Its words are simple, but from the heart:
> “I’m a father, and I have something to say—listen to me.
I want my children to play. Why won’t you let them?
Their doors are waiting for them. Some were martyred.
Some dream of going back to their school that no longer exists.
Their hearts are small—and they plead: Give them a chance.”
When they sing it, I feel they are speaking on behalf of every child in Gaza.
For every missing friend. For every shattered family.
And I—along with my children, and all the children of Gaza—
We beg you:
Give them a chance.
Just one chance to be children.
To laugh.
To play.
To look toward tomorrow without fear.
From my heart, I ask you:
Listen to this song.
Hear their cries—not as distant words,
But as the voice of a child asking for the simplest thing:
A chance to live. Give us a chance. Give us peace.
Please, donate generously to support my family—help us rebuild a brighter future for our children after nearly two years of genocide. Donate now so we can start a new life outside Gaza.
Anonymous
2
| ID | Name | Amount | |
|---|---|---|---|
| 1244 | Listing Agent | [email protected] | |
| 1215 | Listing Agent | [email protected] |
