From Gaza, I Write to You from the Heart of Pain

My name is Aboud. I am twenty years old. I was born and raised in Gaza—this small stretch of land unlike any other in the world.

In Gaza, dreams are born beneath the rubble of homes. Children grow up to the whistle of bullets and the echo of explosions. Here, people grow up too soon, burying pieces of their childhood with every bombardment, every funeral.

Before this latest war tore through our lives, I carried a glimmer of hope in my heart. Despite the siege, despite the destruction, despite the fear that surrounded us, I worked hard in school, graduated from high school, and enrolled in university. There, I thought, the future might finally begin… even if it had to rise from the ruins.

My life wasn’t just about studying. I found a temporary refuge in football, as if it were my only window to breathe. The day I won the university football championship was a small victory I snatched from the jaws of suffering. For a moment, I felt capable of achieving my dreams, despite all the chains around us.

But the war in Gaza doesn’t wait for us to gather our dreams.

We woke to the sound of shells and missiles. We watched our homes turn to ash. I saw our lives collapse before my eyes. The hardest blow came when the occupation forces took my father, ripping him from us, from our home, from the heart of our family. They left us in darkness, drowning in worry and grief, not knowing if he was alive or just another number on the lists of prisoners and the missing.

I was just a young man then, but the war forced me to become the sole provider for my family—my mother and my eight siblings. I swallowed my tears, hid my weakness behind a mask of strength, because I had no other choice.

In that same war, I lost two of my dearest friends. The first was my schoolmate, a young man who dreamed of a bright future—until occupation bullets murdered his dreams. The second was martyred in the aid distribution massacre in Nabulsi neighbourhood. He went out searching for food for his family and returned wrapped in a white shroud. These are scenes that never fade from memory, wounds the heart can never forget.

Abood in 2025

Yet, amid all this pain, there came a moment that made my heart beat again…

My father returned in the last prisoner exchange deal. Alhamdulillah. He came back to us after an absence so long it nearly broke us. He returned exhausted, weighed down by the wounds of years—but he didn’t truly return to us. He was forced into exile in the West Bank, so our joy was shadowed by sorrow, torn apart by longing.

Despite life’s cruelty, despite the war that follows us like a shadow, I still hold on to my biggest dream…

I want to finish my university education. I want to see the world—not through the smoke of bombs, but through the window of knowledge, from the seats of a classroom. I want to see life through the eyes of a student searching for his future, his dignity, his most basic rights. I want to breathe again, far from the smell of gunpowder and the sound of explosions.

I am Aboud… from Gaza… from the heart of death, I write to you. I still believe I was not created in vain. I was made to endure, to dream, to resist, and to remain—a witness that even in the darkest night, hope is born. Even if grief lives in my heart, I will cling to life. Because I know the road does not end here.

Dreams do not die.

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This article was written in Arabic originally by Abood from Gaza and sent to us. We only edited and translated his words to share his story with the world. If you can help Abood, please do. Help Abood and his family.

Abood’s GoFundMe Campaign: https://www.gofundme.com/f/help-aboud-and-his-family-survive-the-genocide-in-gaza

Connect with Abood on X: https://x.com/AboodAbedA55684

Abood in his own words in Arabic