Give the young artist Marah Khaled a chance to survive
United Kingdom
My name is Elena, and I am managing this campaign for my (very young) artist friend Marah Khaled from Gaza, Palestine, who is living under unimaginably hard conditions because of this merciless and unceasing war.
Marah didn’t manage to withdraw the funds from her previous campaign on GoFundMe for unexplained reasons.
It’s difficult to grasp with our arbitrary minds, but Marah (who is barely 18) is currently the only person responsible for the financial survival of her entire family. Marah writes to me every day, oftentimes late at night, informing me about how she’s doing and giving me a daily update about her gorgeous drawings, on which she works every single night, in her tent, amidst the screams of children and others suffering from the enforced starvation, untreated illnesses, or simply the now “usual” falling bombs.
This appeal is to the merciful people who still have a remnant of conscience.
From Marah:
More than 650 days into this catastrophe.
From inside the tent, I’m here to speak to you about everything I’ve lived through—not just the events, but how I’ve captured this tragedy with my paintbrush. I want to leave behind a memory, so that if I am martyred, there will still be something to prove I was here—my brush and my paintings about the children of Gaza who lived through hunger, fear, deprivation, loss, exhaustion, and the world’s indifference.
We suffer here the most brutal kinds of suffering. Our children are born into displacement, fear, and the terrifying sounds of bombs and missiles. If I were to count for you how many times we fled Beit Hanoun under bombardment, I wouldn’t be able to. We ran for our lives, barefoot, to Jabalia, Gaza City, Deir al-Balah, Al-Shati’, Al-Karama, and so many other places.
We have been dying of hunger. We’ve spent nights without tasting even a drop of water or a crumb of bread. We saw our children screaming and tried to comfort them. The world is watching us—surely there must be someone out there with a merciful heart who will look at us with compassion. Not all the good people are gone—some must still remain.
A bitter life—hunger, war, lack of education, a lost future, destroyed homes and dreams, deprivation, and loss—I have lived through it all in every detail. I will never forget, and the memory will never fade. I spent my entire childhood like this, and surely my children will too.
Where are the human rights? Where are the international declarations you so proudly celebrate, when in one strike, dozens are killed, hundreds injured—some lose their limbs, others can’t walk or even write anymore. One becomes the only survivor in his family; another loses his home and everything he owns. Each of us has a story that defies imagination.
And it’s not just that—we run toward food distributions and water points, not even knowing if anything will be left for us or if we’ll return empty-handed. There’s nothing to eat until the next day. How can a person grow up when this is what surrounds them?
They burned the tents above the heads of those inside. Just a worn piece of fabric—how could it protect them from all those explosions?
I never imagined this mass extermination would continue for over two years in silence and global abandonment.
We are still alive.
That’s the sentence we repeat every morning after a night of seeing only ashes and flames threatening to devour our bodies.
We are alive, but war is bitter. Farewell is bitter. Loss is bitter. Life inside Gaza is unbearably bitter.
Every day, I suffer the pain of the journey—thinking, anxiety, memories, endings, people, unfinished paths. Every day, I feel that I don’t belong here or to what I’ve become. I hate continuing on paths that drain me, but reality has forced them upon me—even though my hands are gentle, softly tending the wounds of others. And my heart is peaceful to the extreme. My heart has the energy of my childhood name—it is easily made happy by the smallest things.
My family and I only want a chance to live. A chance to heal from all of this. A chance to survive.
Help us—10 members of my family are living through famine and war.
Support them. Support my art.
Because we deserve life—as humans
I am Marah Khaled, an artist from Gaza. I have lived through fear, hunger, and bombings since my childhood.
I never had the chance to complete my education or attend university—war has stolen both my childhood and my youth.
I will never forget the nights spent under bombardment, trembling with fear, painting on an empty stomach.
Nights without food, without safety, without a voice to hear our cries.
Where is humanity? Where are the kind-hearted? Where are those who believe that art is the voice of the voiceless?
I’m not just selling paintings, I’m sharing my pain, my story, my dream of a dignified life.
Support my art… support my resilience. Please, don’t leave me alone.
Pierfilippo Fazio
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$20,000.00
Funding Goal -
$0.00
Funds Raised -
0
Days to go -
Campaign Never Ends
Campaign End Method
Product Description
United Kingdom
My name is Elena, and I am managing this campaign for my (very young) artist friend Marah Khaled from Gaza, Palestine, who is living under unimaginably hard conditions because of this merciless and unceasing war.
Marah didn’t manage to withdraw the funds from her previous campaign on GoFundMe for unexplained reasons.
It’s difficult to grasp with our arbitrary minds, but Marah (who is barely 18) is currently the only person responsible for the financial survival of her entire family. Marah writes to me every day, oftentimes late at night, informing me about how she’s doing and giving me a daily update about her gorgeous drawings, on which she works every single night, in her tent, amidst the screams of children and others suffering from the enforced starvation, untreated illnesses, or simply the now “usual” falling bombs.
This appeal is to the merciful people who still have a remnant of conscience.
From Marah:
More than 650 days into this catastrophe.
From inside the tent, I’m here to speak to you about everything I’ve lived through—not just the events, but how I’ve captured this tragedy with my paintbrush. I want to leave behind a memory, so that if I am martyred, there will still be something to prove I was here—my brush and my paintings about the children of Gaza who lived through hunger, fear, deprivation, loss, exhaustion, and the world’s indifference.
We suffer here the most brutal kinds of suffering. Our children are born into displacement, fear, and the terrifying sounds of bombs and missiles. If I were to count for you how many times we fled Beit Hanoun under bombardment, I wouldn’t be able to. We ran for our lives, barefoot, to Jabalia, Gaza City, Deir al-Balah, Al-Shati’, Al-Karama, and so many other places.
We have been dying of hunger. We’ve spent nights without tasting even a drop of water or a crumb of bread. We saw our children screaming and tried to comfort them. The world is watching us—surely there must be someone out there with a merciful heart who will look at us with compassion. Not all the good people are gone—some must still remain.
A bitter life—hunger, war, lack of education, a lost future, destroyed homes and dreams, deprivation, and loss—I have lived through it all in every detail. I will never forget, and the memory will never fade. I spent my entire childhood like this, and surely my children will too.
Where are the human rights? Where are the international declarations you so proudly celebrate, when in one strike, dozens are killed, hundreds injured—some lose their limbs, others can’t walk or even write anymore. One becomes the only survivor in his family; another loses his home and everything he owns. Each of us has a story that defies imagination.
And it’s not just that—we run toward food distributions and water points, not even knowing if anything will be left for us or if we’ll return empty-handed. There’s nothing to eat until the next day. How can a person grow up when this is what surrounds them?
They burned the tents above the heads of those inside. Just a worn piece of fabric—how could it protect them from all those explosions?
I never imagined this mass extermination would continue for over two years in silence and global abandonment.
We are still alive.
That’s the sentence we repeat every morning after a night of seeing only ashes and flames threatening to devour our bodies.
We are alive, but war is bitter. Farewell is bitter. Loss is bitter. Life inside Gaza is unbearably bitter.
Every day, I suffer the pain of the journey—thinking, anxiety, memories, endings, people, unfinished paths. Every day, I feel that I don’t belong here or to what I’ve become. I hate continuing on paths that drain me, but reality has forced them upon me—even though my hands are gentle, softly tending the wounds of others. And my heart is peaceful to the extreme. My heart has the energy of my childhood name—it is easily made happy by the smallest things.
My family and I only want a chance to live. A chance to heal from all of this. A chance to survive.
Help us—10 members of my family are living through famine and war.
Support them. Support my art.
Because we deserve life—as humans
I am Marah Khaled, an artist from Gaza. I have lived through fear, hunger, and bombings since my childhood.
I never had the chance to complete my education or attend university—war has stolen both my childhood and my youth.
I will never forget the nights spent under bombardment, trembling with fear, painting on an empty stomach.
Nights without food, without safety, without a voice to hear our cries.
Where is humanity? Where are the kind-hearted? Where are those who believe that art is the voice of the voiceless?
I’m not just selling paintings, I’m sharing my pain, my story, my dream of a dignified life.
Support my art… support my resilience. Please, don’t leave me alone.
Pierfilippo Fazio
| ID | Name | Amount | |
|---|---|---|---|
| 1244 | Listing Agent | [email protected] | |
| 1215 | Listing Agent | [email protected] |
