Help Get These Children To Safety
United States
This is Mahmoud’s story
PRESENT CIRCUMSTANCES: My family and I are living in unimaginable conditions in Rafah. We have no home, no clean water, no steady access to food, and no safe shelter. My children are sick with hepatitis A. My daughter is recovering from a burn caused by a fire in our tent. We’ve lost loved ones in shelter bombings.
My name is Mahmoud Badawi. I am 35 years old, a husband, and the father of four beautiful children: Anas (8), Zeina (6), Adam (4), and our baby girl, Celine, who was born just weeks before this genocide began.
In 2012, I graduated from the College of Engineering, Software Department. I tried for years to work in my field, but due to the lack of job opportunities in Gaza, I did whatever I could to survive. Eventually, I was able to open a small carpentry shop. It allowed me to provide food and basic necessities for my family and offer my children a modest but stable life.
Then, on October 7th, everything changed.
Since the genocide began, we have been displaced multiple times, forced to flee our home in Gaza City and move to Rafah. One day I was told that my carpentry shop had been bombed. Two days later, I learned that my house had also been destroyed. I did not believe it until I saw the photos. In a matter of moments, everything I worked for was gone.
I have always spent my life working hard to care for my family. I dreamed of building a beautiful future for my children. Now I no longer know what I am dreaming of.
I am asking for help so I can rebuild my home and carpentry shop. I want to provide a safe place for my children after the genocide, to give them shelter, stability, and healing. Seeing them without a home breaks my heart, and I know it breaks the heart of anyone who hears this.
Please, if you can, donate. Every contribution makes a difference. Your support means hope.
We are trapped in the arithmetic of the doomed, forced to calculate the incalculable. Our choice is not between life and death, but between one death and another. We are choosing to flee from the immediate threat of bombs and shells, only to run towards what we call the “greater death”—the unknown, harrowing journey of displacement to the south.
To even call it a “choice” feels like a betrayal of language. It is a desperate, forced move made when all other doors have been sealed shut. The situation here is beyond description; words seem too small, too inadequate to contain the vastness of this suffering. It is a reality that must be lived to be understood, a nightmare from which there is no waking.
The journey itself is a gauntlet of exorbitant costs and immense danger. There is no formal transportation. No buses arrive to safely carry women, children, and the elderly. Instead, we are at the mercy of those who own a vehicle and are willing to risk the roads, and they demand a king’s ransom for a few inches of space. The cost of escape is prohibitively high, a fortune we simply do not have.
And even if we miraculously secure the means to travel, another void awaits us: destination. I have not yet been able to find a place in the south to seek shelter. There is no safe haven marked on a map, no address waiting for us. We would be fleeing towards a profound uncertainty, towards overcrowded camps, streets without shelter, and a future with no guarantee of food, water, or safety.
So here we stand, poised on the edge of this impossible decision. To stay is to face one reality. To leave is to leap into another, perhaps deeper, abyss. This is the brutal calculus of survival that we are now forced to learn. This is our truth.
As our forced displacement southward looms and the military operation—which has already begun in the Al-Zaytoun neighborhood east of Gaza City—intensifies, everyone in Gaza is enduring unimaginable suffering. We know that if we leave, we will never return.
Gaza City, the heart of our lives, where people from all over the Strip once gathered—home to universities, institutions, markets, outings, and everything that made life whole—will soon be reduced to rubble in a matter of months. Gaza City is our last stronghold, the final thread of hope not just for its people, but for all of Palestine.
We are bracing for days hundreds of times harder than what we’ve already endured. We pray to God to ease the coming hardships for our children and for ourselves. We pray for a miracle to stop the occupation’s assault on Gaza.
May God curse all those who contributed, participated, or stayed silent in the face of our suffering—be they Jews or Arabs. O Allah, shield our vulnerabilities, calm our fears, and grant us strength. There is no power nor might except through Allah.
Pray for us. The situation is very scary tonight—airstrikes, artillery shelling. We don’t know where the shells are coming from. Oh God…
A harrowing night, during which we fled our home under relentless fire and bombardment. Thank God, we emerged safely, but death was our constant companion every single moment. Oh God, take us away from this life; we’ve run out of strength for it.
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
This is Mahmoud’s story
PRESENT CIRCUMSTANCES: My family and I are living in unimaginable conditions in Rafah. We have no home, no clean water, no steady access to food, and no safe shelter. My children are sick with hepatitis A. My daughter is recovering from a burn caused by a fire in our tent. We’ve lost loved ones in shelter bombings.
My name is Mahmoud Badawi. I am 35 years old, a husband, and the father of four beautiful children: Anas (8), Zeina (6), Adam (4), and our baby girl, Celine, who was born just weeks before this genocide began.
In 2012, I graduated from the College of Engineering, Software Department. I tried for years to work in my field, but due to the lack of job opportunities in Gaza, I did whatever I could to survive. Eventually, I was able to open a small carpentry shop. It allowed me to provide food and basic necessities for my family and offer my children a modest but stable life.
Then, on October 7th, everything changed.
Since the genocide began, we have been displaced multiple times, forced to flee our home in Gaza City and move to Rafah. One day I was told that my carpentry shop had been bombed. Two days later, I learned that my house had also been destroyed. I did not believe it until I saw the photos. In a matter of moments, everything I worked for was gone.
I have always spent my life working hard to care for my family. I dreamed of building a beautiful future for my children. Now I no longer know what I am dreaming of.
I am asking for help so I can rebuild my home and carpentry shop. I want to provide a safe place for my children after the genocide, to give them shelter, stability, and healing. Seeing them without a home breaks my heart, and I know it breaks the heart of anyone who hears this.
Please, if you can, donate. Every contribution makes a difference. Your support means hope.
We are trapped in the arithmetic of the doomed, forced to calculate the incalculable. Our choice is not between life and death, but between one death and another. We are choosing to flee from the immediate threat of bombs and shells, only to run towards what we call the “greater death”—the unknown, harrowing journey of displacement to the south.
To even call it a “choice” feels like a betrayal of language. It is a desperate, forced move made when all other doors have been sealed shut. The situation here is beyond description; words seem too small, too inadequate to contain the vastness of this suffering. It is a reality that must be lived to be understood, a nightmare from which there is no waking.
The journey itself is a gauntlet of exorbitant costs and immense danger. There is no formal transportation. No buses arrive to safely carry women, children, and the elderly. Instead, we are at the mercy of those who own a vehicle and are willing to risk the roads, and they demand a king’s ransom for a few inches of space. The cost of escape is prohibitively high, a fortune we simply do not have.
And even if we miraculously secure the means to travel, another void awaits us: destination. I have not yet been able to find a place in the south to seek shelter. There is no safe haven marked on a map, no address waiting for us. We would be fleeing towards a profound uncertainty, towards overcrowded camps, streets without shelter, and a future with no guarantee of food, water, or safety.
So here we stand, poised on the edge of this impossible decision. To stay is to face one reality. To leave is to leap into another, perhaps deeper, abyss. This is the brutal calculus of survival that we are now forced to learn. This is our truth.
As our forced displacement southward looms and the military operation—which has already begun in the Al-Zaytoun neighborhood east of Gaza City—intensifies, everyone in Gaza is enduring unimaginable suffering. We know that if we leave, we will never return.
Gaza City, the heart of our lives, where people from all over the Strip once gathered—home to universities, institutions, markets, outings, and everything that made life whole—will soon be reduced to rubble in a matter of months. Gaza City is our last stronghold, the final thread of hope not just for its people, but for all of Palestine.
We are bracing for days hundreds of times harder than what we’ve already endured. We pray to God to ease the coming hardships for our children and for ourselves. We pray for a miracle to stop the occupation’s assault on Gaza.
May God curse all those who contributed, participated, or stayed silent in the face of our suffering—be they Jews or Arabs. O Allah, shield our vulnerabilities, calm our fears, and grant us strength. There is no power nor might except through Allah.
Pray for us. The situation is very scary tonight—airstrikes, artillery shelling. We don’t know where the shells are coming from. Oh God…
A harrowing night, during which we fled our home under relentless fire and bombardment. Thank God, we emerged safely, but death was our constant companion every single moment. Oh God, take us away from this life; we’ve run out of strength for it.
Anonymous
| ID | Name | Amount | |
|---|---|---|---|
| 1244 | Listing Agent | [email protected] | |
| 1215 | Listing Agent | [email protected] |
