Amal’s Resilience: A beacon of hope in Gaza
United States
Hello, My name is Eva, the organizer of Operation Handala. I don’t have much, but I have a phone, a crowdfunding link, and this story.
Meet Amal. Amal means “hope” in Arabic.
She is 26 years old. A wife. A mother. A teacher. A woman who once graded school work – is now grading survival by the hour.
Before the conflict, she built life word by word, teaching English to children in her home. Now, she teaches her 4 year old son Hamoud how to distinguish between “close booms” and “far” ones.
Amal’s Story, In Her Own Words:
“I used to teach children the past tense: “We loved, we laughed, we learned.” Now I teach my son the present tense. “We run, we hide, we’re hungry”
Hamoud is 4. He should be learning colors. sounds and letters. Instead he knows:
• White Phosphorus means the sky is burning.
• A Whistling sound means 10 seconds ….
• Air Pressure Changes means we’re near the soon-to-be blast sight.
A few weeks ago, he found a broken pencil. He held it like a treasure and asked, “Mama, can we do letters again?” I said yes. Then we heard a whistling sound. I ran with my small son in my arms.
I left the pencil behind.
That is what its like here now – it steals pencils from children’s hands and replaces them sometimes with exit wounds and sometimes with nothing to hold a pencil with.
I don’t pray for peace anymore. I pray for a blanket thick enough to muffle his crying when the drones come.
I used to have dreams. A degree in English Literature. A home where I taught children verbs and vowels. Enough income to watch Hamoud grow with books in his hands instead of fear in his eyes.
Now I dream in reverse: of clean water that won’t make him sick. Of a night without fear or running. Of a single hour where I’m not calculating how far the screams are from our tent.
I lost my classroom when my house collapsed. I lost my students to graves or displacement. I’m watching my son lose his childhood to conflict math: 4 years old, but he already knows the difference between ‘tank’ and ‘drone’ sounds.
All that’s left is this: the weight of Hamoud’s body as I watch him sleep on my chest. I leave him there – no matter how uncomfortable it is for me – just to keep him as far away from sand mites and fleas as possible, while praying his ‘Mama’ won’t be the last word he ever says.
I don’t ask for my old life back. Just a chance to prove he can outlive this.
I swore to my son we’d find safety. Today, you can help make this possible. ~Amal
Thank you for reading Amal’s story. Now lets rewrite Hamouds future together.
Amal still sings lullabys to her son each night – soft melodies to drown out the drones. She rocks him to sleep in a tent that floods when it rains. She tells him stories of a world where children don’t know the sound of bombs.
Please donate what you can and please SHARE if you can’t. Every action counts.
Every bit keeps hope and Amal alive.
Click here to follow Amal on Instagram
Follow Amal on Tik Tok here
Thank you again.
Love always and Foreva, Eva xoxo
Email Me Here
IG: @operation.handala
P.S. I forgot to mention Leo, Hamouds beloved cat that has gone missing. Hamoud misses Leo so much and we pray Leo returns to his family.
I just need to let this out… I’ve been drowning in a really deep blue mood for the past two days. I’m so sad, and I keep having moments where I just break down and cry. I can’t stop crying… it’s just too much. I feel completely exhausted, like I’m carrying the weight of the whole world on my shoulders. I thought I could fight, but I ended up doing the hardest thing I could imagine — asking for help. I keep telling myself: my son, my family, we all deserve to live better. But it feels so unfair. I have to prove to everyone that I deserve support while I’m already barely surviving. Every day is full of struggles I can’t even fully explain: waking up on a mattress on the floor, brushing my teeth with a cup of water, using a tiny bathroom made of nylon and tin… I just want normal things, like standing at a sink to wash dishes or using a washing machine instead of scrubbing by hand until my back hurts. My back aches from all this, and my heart aches too. I try to find breakfast for my son, thinking how I can give him the best, while even small things I crave, like a piece of chocolate, feel impossible. Every moment is heavy, every detail of our day is a challenge. And on top of that, I have to make videos, cry in front of strangers, and condense all this pain into a clip for donations. I feel like I’m losing whatever humanity I have left. What hurts me the most is that I can’t even think about the future. The exhausting daily details keep me stuck in surviving each moment, and it’s crushing. I feel guilty for even asking for help, yet I’m drowning. I long for a single chocolate, a hot shower, a place to just rest… but none of that exists. Everything feels unbearable right now.
Anonymous
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$25,000.00
Funding Goal -
$0.00
Funds Raised -
0
Days to go -
Campaign Never Ends
Campaign End Method
Product Description
United States
Hello, My name is Eva, the organizer of Operation Handala. I don’t have much, but I have a phone, a crowdfunding link, and this story.
Meet Amal. Amal means “hope” in Arabic.
She is 26 years old. A wife. A mother. A teacher. A woman who once graded school work – is now grading survival by the hour.
Before the conflict, she built life word by word, teaching English to children in her home. Now, she teaches her 4 year old son Hamoud how to distinguish between “close booms” and “far” ones.
Amal’s Story, In Her Own Words:
“I used to teach children the past tense: “We loved, we laughed, we learned.” Now I teach my son the present tense. “We run, we hide, we’re hungry”
Hamoud is 4. He should be learning colors. sounds and letters. Instead he knows:
• White Phosphorus means the sky is burning.
• A Whistling sound means 10 seconds ….
• Air Pressure Changes means we’re near the soon-to-be blast sight.
A few weeks ago, he found a broken pencil. He held it like a treasure and asked, “Mama, can we do letters again?” I said yes. Then we heard a whistling sound. I ran with my small son in my arms.
I left the pencil behind.
That is what its like here now – it steals pencils from children’s hands and replaces them sometimes with exit wounds and sometimes with nothing to hold a pencil with.
I don’t pray for peace anymore. I pray for a blanket thick enough to muffle his crying when the drones come.
I used to have dreams. A degree in English Literature. A home where I taught children verbs and vowels. Enough income to watch Hamoud grow with books in his hands instead of fear in his eyes.
Now I dream in reverse: of clean water that won’t make him sick. Of a night without fear or running. Of a single hour where I’m not calculating how far the screams are from our tent.
I lost my classroom when my house collapsed. I lost my students to graves or displacement. I’m watching my son lose his childhood to conflict math: 4 years old, but he already knows the difference between ‘tank’ and ‘drone’ sounds.
All that’s left is this: the weight of Hamoud’s body as I watch him sleep on my chest. I leave him there – no matter how uncomfortable it is for me – just to keep him as far away from sand mites and fleas as possible, while praying his ‘Mama’ won’t be the last word he ever says.
I don’t ask for my old life back. Just a chance to prove he can outlive this.
I swore to my son we’d find safety. Today, you can help make this possible. ~Amal
Thank you for reading Amal’s story. Now lets rewrite Hamouds future together.
Amal still sings lullabys to her son each night – soft melodies to drown out the drones. She rocks him to sleep in a tent that floods when it rains. She tells him stories of a world where children don’t know the sound of bombs.
Please donate what you can and please SHARE if you can’t. Every action counts.
Every bit keeps hope and Amal alive.
Click here to follow Amal on Instagram
Follow Amal on Tik Tok here
Thank you again.
Love always and Foreva, Eva xoxo
Email Me Here
IG: @operation.handala
P.S. I forgot to mention Leo, Hamouds beloved cat that has gone missing. Hamoud misses Leo so much and we pray Leo returns to his family.
I just need to let this out… I’ve been drowning in a really deep blue mood for the past two days. I’m so sad, and I keep having moments where I just break down and cry. I can’t stop crying… it’s just too much. I feel completely exhausted, like I’m carrying the weight of the whole world on my shoulders. I thought I could fight, but I ended up doing the hardest thing I could imagine — asking for help. I keep telling myself: my son, my family, we all deserve to live better. But it feels so unfair. I have to prove to everyone that I deserve support while I’m already barely surviving. Every day is full of struggles I can’t even fully explain: waking up on a mattress on the floor, brushing my teeth with a cup of water, using a tiny bathroom made of nylon and tin… I just want normal things, like standing at a sink to wash dishes or using a washing machine instead of scrubbing by hand until my back hurts. My back aches from all this, and my heart aches too. I try to find breakfast for my son, thinking how I can give him the best, while even small things I crave, like a piece of chocolate, feel impossible. Every moment is heavy, every detail of our day is a challenge. And on top of that, I have to make videos, cry in front of strangers, and condense all this pain into a clip for donations. I feel like I’m losing whatever humanity I have left. What hurts me the most is that I can’t even think about the future. The exhausting daily details keep me stuck in surviving each moment, and it’s crushing. I feel guilty for even asking for help, yet I’m drowning. I long for a single chocolate, a hot shower, a place to just rest… but none of that exists. Everything feels unbearable right now.
Anonymous
| ID | Name | Amount | |
|---|---|---|---|
| 1244 | Listing Agent | [email protected] | |
| 1215 | Listing Agent | [email protected] |
