Support Mosab Hossam’s Family in Gaza

Help Hamza Breathe — A Father's Plea from Gaza

My name is Mosab Hussam. I am a school teacher, a husband to Rida, and a father to three children: Hussam, Zeina, and Hamza.

We lost our beautiful daughter Zeina to cerebral palsy—a battle made unbearable by the lack of care, unaffordable medical expenses, and the scarcity of food in Gaza.

Now, my one-and-a-half-year-old son Hamza fights a different battle. He suffers from Tay-Sachs syndrome, a rare and devastating condition. Every day, he struggles to breathe. Every night, seizures rack his small body. Swallowing is a painful effort. Life for Hamza is not a game—it is a daily fight for every breath, every bite, every moment without pain.

We were once a family living a quiet, peaceful life in a warm apartment filled with laughter. Then the world collapsed around us. Our home was reduced to rubble. Every corner held a memory; every wall bore witness to their laughter. Now, only fear and cold remain.

I have lost friends. I have lost family members. The area where we live has become a war zone—nothing but the screams of people and the sound of random shelling. We have been displaced again and again, searching for safety in a place where nowhere is safe.

I am not asking for my own fate. But what about the innocent children? They watch horrors no child should ever see—horrors that will haunt them forever. I cannot bear to lose another child. I cannot bear to watch Hamza suffer without the care he desperately needs.

Today, I stand before you as a weary father—not to complain, but to ask you to be his support.

Hamza doesn't need much to survive. He needs medical equipment to ease his breathing. He needs proper nutrition to strengthen his fragile body. He needs to feel that the world has not abandoned him.

Your donation is not just money to me. It is the air he breathes. It is the peace of mind that eases his pain. It is the difference between a day filled with suffering and a more comfortable day for my son—a child who has nothing but his silent prayers for you.

So I am asking you, from one human being to another: please don't look away from Hamza. Donate if you can. Share our story with your friends and family. Stand with us—not because we are a cause, but because we are a family fighting to survive.

Your support is Hamza's only lifeline. And to me, it means the world.