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Help Munir’s Family Survive in Gaza

A Testimony from the Heart of a Tent

My name is Munir.

I am not a number in a statistic. I am not a headline in breaking news. I am a human being who once had a home, a dream, and a father to lean on. Today, I write these words from a tent, beneath a sky that knows no mercy.

I was a nurse in Gaza. I used to save people. I used to dream of a future I could build day by day.

Then the war came. And it did not ask about dreams.

We lost our father.

He did not die from a bullet or a missile. He died while holding my hand at the emergency gate. He died after giving his final advice to everyone he loved. He died after laughing with us for twenty minutes during our last meeting.

His heart could no longer bear the bitterness of what he was seeing. He carried everyone until he could carry no more.

He left.

And he left me carrying what he once carried.

Thirteen souls. One tent.

Today, I am responsible for thirteen human beings: my wife, my children, my mother who lost her husband and her home at the same moment, and my brothers who are trying to build a future in a time that shows no mercy.

We live in one tent. A piece of fabric separates us from the wind, the rain, and the bombardment. The ground is dirt. The air barely moves. In summer, the tent turns into an oven. In winter, the cold enters through every crack and opening.

Every morning, I wake before dawn.

The first thing I do is count the children with my eyes. I make sure they are breathing. That is the first waiting of the day.

Not waiting for them to be well — that is a luxury we no longer ask for here — but simply waiting to know that they are still breathing.

Queues are not just lines of people.

They are a psychological state. Suspended time. A place where identity becomes a number. We stand for one hour, two hours, three hours, under the sun, waiting for water that may not even be clean when it arrives.

Food is not enough. Medicine is scarce. The health system has collapsed. Prices rise and fall without logic, and what we manage to save today is not enough tomorrow.

Planning has become a luxury.

Survival is the only plan left.

Rahab.

My daughter, who learned inside this tent that the sound of drones and aircraft is part of daily life. She learned to laugh quietly. She learned that hunger means eating whatever is given.

One night, I heard her crying in her sleep. I went to her and wiped her tears.

With her eyes still closed, she said:

“Baba, I am afraid of the night.”

I asked her, “Why?”

She said, “Because the night is long, and morning does not come quickly.”

I held her close.

And I had nothing to say.

Because she was telling the truth.

Jamal.

My son, who was born on the fortieth day after his grandfather’s death. His name was Kinan — meaning protection — before the war. But protection had died. So I named him Jamal, after his grandfather.

I held him in my arms, looked up at the sky, and said:

“God took one Jamal and gave us another Jamal.”

This child was born in a tent. He has never seen a home. He has never known safety.

And I fear that he may grow up believing this is normal.

The twins — Saadi and Mahmoud.

In the middle of all this pain, hunger, fear, and long nights, in the middle of bombardment that does not stop, two children sit with the Qur’an open between them.

Saadi and Mahmoud lost their father. They are orphans in a time that does not show mercy to orphans. But they decided — with a will greater than their age — not to lose anything else.

They decided to memorize the entire Book of Allah.

Not in a school. Not in a mosque. But in a tent, on dirt ground, between the sounds of aircraft and explosions.

They made a promise to themselves and to Allah: to continue, to be patient, and to honor their father with every verse they memorize.

They did not say, “We will wait until the war ends.”

They did not say, “We will wait until we return home.”

They said, “We begin now. Here. In this tent. Because the words of Allah do not wait for suitable circumstances.”

When I see them repeating verses inside our tent, I feel something difficult to describe. Something that feels like Allah has not abandoned us. Something that feels like our father is still planting faith in us even after his departure.

This tent was imposed on us as a punishment from the outside.

But from the inside, it has become a home for the Qur’an.

Amir.

My brother, who refuses to let the war steal his future.

Even here. Even in this tent. Even under these conditions, Amir continues his university studies in Information Technology. He opens his books between power cuts and bombardment. He studies when many others have been forced to give up.

He believes that knowledge is the one thing a missile cannot destroy.

But education costs money we do not have: tuition fees, materials, and an internet connection that comes and goes. Every semester is a battle within the larger battle.

Amjad.

Our youngest brother. We recently enrolled him in university because we refused to let another dream die.

But university expenses under these conditions are a heavy burden on us. Prices change unpredictably. What we saved yesterday is not enough today. Amjad’s future is suspended between what we can afford and what the war decides.

We enrolled him because we believe in him. Because our father believed in education above everything. Because giving up on Amjad’s future would mean giving the war something it has no right to take.

Our mother.

She wakes before everyone every morning. She sweeps the dirt floor as if she were arranging a real home. She prepares the little food we have as if she were setting a table for guests.

One night, I sat beside her outside the tent. We looked at the stars together in silence.

Then she said quietly:

“I thought I was strong… but I am tired.”

I placed my hand over hers.

And I had nothing to say.

This woman lost her husband. She lost her home. She lost the life she had built over decades.

And still, every morning, she wakes up and sweeps the dirt floor.

Because that is what mothers do.

My brother, ALMONTHER — the paramedic. My partner in all of this.

While I care for wounded bodies, my brother Almonther — the paramedic — documents the wounds of the soul.

He writes. He raises his voice. He tells the stories of those who have no platform. He witnesses what others choose not to see. And he carries the weight of testimony on top of the weight of survival.

Together, we are trying to keep this family above water.

Two brothers. One tent. Thirteen human beings. And a burden that grows heavier every day.

In my pocket, I carry a rusty key.

A key to a home that no longer exists.

I keep it because it reminds me that I once had a home.

One day, Rahab asked me:

“Baba, where is our house?”

I had no answer.

We are one family carrying one another.

Munir — the nurse who feeds, treats, and stands even when he is about to fall.

Almonther — the paramedic who documents, writes, and raises his voice for those whose voices cannot reach the world.

Saadi and Mahmoud — the twins who carry the words of Allah in their hearts and honor their father with every verse they memorize.

Amir — who opens his Information Technology books between bombardments and refuses to surrender.

Amjad — the youngest, whom we enrolled in university because his future is worth fighting for.

Our mother — the strength that cries in silence and remains standing because she has no other choice.

This is our family.

This is our story.

And this is our appeal to you.

Where Your Support Will Go

Every donation — no matter how small — will go directly toward:

🍞 Food for thirteen people living in a tent with no stable income

💊 Medicine for our mother and the children

💧 Clean water when the waiting lines grow long

📚 University fees for Amir and Amjad, so the war does not steal their education

🏕️ Basic shelter needs — blankets, warmth, and survival essentials

If you cannot donate, please share.

Let our voice reach others Every share may open a door through which hope can enter.

We are the ships that never rest.

We have no harbor.

But we keep sailing, and we remain, because we have no other choice.

Because Saadi and Mahmoud deserve to complete their memorization of the Qur’an

Because Amir deserves to finish his studies

Because Amjad deserves the future we enrolled him for

Because Rahab deserves to stop being afraid of the night

Because Jamal deserves to grow up knowing that a tent is not a home

From the heart of the tent — thank you to everyone who feels, shares, and takes action

The family of Nurse Munir and Paramedic Almonther

MUNIR | ALMONTHER