
Help Sameh and his daughter Hayat to find safety
Hayat has the right to live in safety
My name is Sameh, and I am from the Gaza Strip. I work as a teacher for children, always dreaming of instilling hope and knowledge in their young hearts. For 11 years, my wife and I lived in a home filled with prayers and tears, longing for the arrival of a child to fill our lives. After more than a decade of waiting, God blessed us with a baby girl whom we named Hayat—our miracle, our light, and our hope. Her name means "life," and she became the embodiment of everything we had dreamed of in a world that offers so little.
Hayat was only a few months old when the war broke out on October 7th. I had dreamed of a bright future for her, a childhood filled with laughter, safety, and love, but that dream was shattered in an instant. The sound of bombs replaced her lullabies, and the walls of our home, which once echoed with our joy, crumbled into dust.
We fled with nothing but the clothes on our backs, carrying Hayat and whatever hope we could muster. In northern Gaza, we searched for shelter, but safety was an illusion. Bombs followed us, hunger gnawed at us, and fear became our constant companion. I held Hayat tightly, whispering promises of safety, though deep inside, I knew I was lying to her.
Desperate, we moved to Rafah, hoping for peace, but we found only more destruction. Hunger grew sharper, and danger seemed to lurk around every corner. I watched as my daughter’s eyes, once so full of wonder, dimmed with exhaustion and fear. Every cry for food that I couldn’t provide pierced my heart like a dagger.
We fled again, to Khan Yunis, and finally to Deir al-Balah, searching, praying, and pleading for a place where the bombs would not find us. Now, we live in a cold, overcrowded shelter, with nothing to shield us from the harsh winter air. Food is scarce, prices are unbearable, and every day feels like an uphill battle against despair.
Hayat’s tiny hands cling to mine as if I am her only anchor in this storm. And I am. But how can I protect her when I have nothing left to give? I sing to her at night, though my voice trembles with the weight of my tears. I tell her stories of a world I want her to see—a world without fear, hunger, or war.
But I am tired. Tired of running, tired of begging, tired of dreaming. I look at Hayat and wonder if she will ever know the life I wanted for her, or if the war will steal even her future, as it has stolen so much already.
To everyone reading this, I plead with you—for the sake of humanity, for the sake of my daughter—please help us. Your support and kindness could be the lifeline that keeps us going. I ask for only one thing: for Hayat to live, to grow, and to dream in a world where she is not afraid.
