Help me

o the kind hearts who still believe in humanity,

I write to you not with words, but with wounds. My name is Hisham Shabat, and I am

one of the forgotten souls of Gaza. As I sit here in the ruins of all I once knew where I

am scribbling this plea by the dim light of a dying phone. I struggle to find the words

heavy enough to carry the weight of our suffering. How do I explain what it feels like

to bury your future alongside your loved ones? To wake up each morning not to the

sound of birds, but to the screams of children buried under rubble? To pray not for

dreams, but simply for bread?

The occupation does not just destroy our homes, our schools, our hospitals; it

annihilates our very souls. It steals the laughter of our children, the ambitions of our

youth, and the dignity of our elders. Every bomb that falls doesn’t just shatter

concrete; it extinguishes a thousand possibilities. I was supposed to be graduating

this year, building a career, lifting my family from poverty. Instead, I am digging

through debris for scraps of food, counting the dead instead of planning for life. They

have taken more than our land; they have taken our right to hope.

Even if we miraculously survive the bombs, the ghost of hunger haunts us

relentlessly. It follows us into our tents, stealing sleep from our children's eyes as

their tiny bodies wither away. It lurks in every empty market, every ration line where

thousands fight over a single bag of flour. My little siblings no longer cries when they

are hungry as they have learned that tears won't fill their stomachs. We wake up

starving, we spend our days searching, we go to bed with aching bellies, only to

repeat the nightmare tomorrow. Death by starvation is slow, cruel, and humiliating,

however, in Gaza, it has become our inescapable shadow.

Gaza is no longer just a land under siege; it is an open grave where hope comes to

die. But today, I clutch onto one last shred of it. The hope that somewhere, someone

will read this and see us not as headlines, but as human beings. This is not just my

story. It is the story of my family, my neighbors, and every trembling hand stretched

out in the dark, begging for mercy.

Today, I swallow my pride and reach out to you with trembling hands. I have created

a GoFundMe because we have nowhere left to turn. The banks are rubble, the aid

trucks are blocked, and our wallets hold nothing but dust. This campaign is our last

lifeline

,

not for luxuries, but for survival itself. Every dollar will go toward buying

flour to keep my siblings alive, medicine for my ailing parents, or a blanket to

shield

us from the cold. I dream of one day rebuilding my education, but today, I beg simply

for the chance to see tomorrow. If you cannot donate, I implore you

to

share this

plea like a prayer. Let the world remember we are still here, still fighting to exis

t. The

siege may have stolen our food, but it will not steal our hope while kindness still lives

in your hearts.

If your heart still beats for justice, if your eyes still weep for strangers, I beg yo