Martha Baskin
Common Dreams / December 27, 2024
Families in Gaza began to reach out to me on Facebook after I started posting about my horror at the war and my country’s unwavering support for it. I feel compelled to share some of their stories.
My new friend in Gaza tells me, “Humanity is everything. It is taste. It is God’s mercy that’s in you…” I am not a believer, but I accept whatever keeps her going for herself and her family.
Like many all over the world, I’ve been horrified by the war on Gaza and my country’s unwavering support for Israel. Yes, I was horrified by the Hamas attack, but the relentless retaliation, now in it’s 14th month, which has claimed the lives of over 45,000 innocent civilians, many of them women and children, turned the horror into rising anger. I’ve engaged in protests at the federal building, blocked roads, written and called my members of Congress regularly. I’ve participated in daily Jewish Voice for Peace Power Half-Hours for Gaza, and still the war rages on.
Early on, I began donating to various humanitarian aid agencies. But the aid doesn’t always reach its intended recipients for a variety of reasons—non-stop bombing and hindering of aid by the Israel Defense Forces (IDF), as well as criminal gangs stealing the aid, a common reality in war zones. What else could I do?
Fatima’s intro on Facebook reads: “Oh, you damned war, you must stop. We are no longer able to continue. We are tired of staying alive.”
Facebook was an open book about my sentiments. Soon families began reaching out to me. Families in Khan Younis, Jabalya, Gaza City. Then one woman stepped forward, and I felt compelled to share her story, and that of others. Her name is Fatima Qadeesh.
She tells me she fights to stay alive, this woman whose country my own has helped destroy with an estimated $22.76 billion from October 7, 2023 to September 30, 2024 alone. She fights for herself, her children, and her disabled father. Her deep brown eyes look out with defiance and dignity from a keffiyeh wrapped around her head in her profile. “I lost my husband in the genocide. And now I am fighting alone to provide food, drink, detergents, medicine, clothes, milk, and blankets,” she says.
Direct and determined, Fatima is a new Facebook friend. No amount can give her back the father of her children or her beloved Gaza, but at least I can help with donations whenever I can, to make small amends for my country, which refuses to stop the weapons and the carnage, regardless of the toll on human life.
After one donation, Fatima starts to message me regularly: “How are you my dear friend? I hope you are in good health. I send my love to you and your dear family. I wish you a day full of love and happiness.”
A few days later I message her: “Hello Fatima. Just sent you a little more money. May the war end soon. I am so sorry for my country’s complicity. Please stay safe. It’s 11:43 p.m. for you now. Hope there are no bombs and the night is sweet. All my good wishes.”
She replies with a heart emoji, followed by, “God bless you my dear friend.”
I reply with three butterfly emojis: “Some say butterflies represent transformation and freedom. May it be so!”
Fatima replies with another heart emoji and the words: “I hope so and I hope we meet one day and drink Arabic coffee. You are a great woman. I love you,” followed by an emoji with two open hands, palms facing up.
I reply: “I like the idea of drinking Arabic coffee together. But I don’t consider myself very great—only a woman with a conscience. Stay strong,” to which she replies, “Oh my God, how great you are. I respect your decision.”
Another few days pass and Fatima messages me again: “My dear friend, can I ask you a small question?”
I reply, “Of course.”
“My request is that you help me spread my campaign to close friends to provide a bag of flour that I cannot provide due to the high prices of goods today,” she writes. “It is worth $350, and I cannot provide it. I have received half of its due. If there is any disturbance, no need. This is my story on Facebook, take a look at it. I’m sorry if I bothered you with my message.”
I tell her I’ll post her GoFundMe page at the top of my Facebook posts. She shares a picture of her three young children, another of someone who may be her mother, and another of tents being ripped apart by the wind and rain. When her home was turned to rubble by relentless Israeli bombing, she was displaced. Tents on the beach became the only refuge. But with the arrival of the rainy season, keeping them intact and dry is a challenging and often impossible proposition. The Norwegian Refugee Council-led Shelter Cluster in Palestine says it will take humanitarian aid agencies more than two years to deliver materials to repair tents in southern Gaza alone. According to the agency, only 23% of Gaza’s shelter needs were addressed this fall, leaving nearly 1 million Palestinians exposed to winter rains with no shelter at all.
Fatima’s intro on Facebook reads: “Oh, you damned war, you must stop. We are no longer able to continue. We are tired of staying alive.” While the first and third sentiments are no doubt true, the second seems fleeting because she always rebounds. “In the midst of this chaos, my family remains my anchor,” she says in one of her posts, “And I am determined to protect them from any further harm.”
More days pass. She messages me again: “May God make you happy. I don’t know how to thank you. It was a heavy rain today. The tent is leaking. I moved to my neighbour because of the heavy rains. I can’t afford nylon to fix the tent and protect my children. The situation is very difficult.” She tells me she is running out of flour and asks if I can help. “I have sent to many people. You are my only refuge. You are in my heart and soul.”
Fatima is in my heart and soul as well. I feel a deep connection. How can this be for someone I’ve known less than a month? Is it compassion, that innate ability to empathize? Is it shared humanity, the kind I’ve often exercised as someone who was raised, in part, as a Quaker? Is it outrage at the ongoing horror that I’m determined to make right? Or is it guilt because of my Jewish, but decidedly non-Zionist, heritage? Perhaps it’s a blending of all of these things, but Fatima is my sister now and I won’t abandon her.
Many of the 1.9 million displaced in Gaza are asking for help. GoFundMe has seen a surge of support for those in Gaza and Israel, since the Hamas attack, according to its web page. For my part, I feel honoured to know Fatima and others who’ve reached out to me including Rasha, Samir, Ayat, Reham, Ahmed, Sama, and Mohamed.
Let me tell you a little about Mohamed. He, his 10-year-old daughter Judy, his siblings, and his parents have been displaced multiple times. For a while they tried living in a tent but in late fall returned to the rubble of their home, south of Khan Younis. The home is missing most of the roof and walls. A California-based organizer for his GoFundMe page says the donations have provided supplies to get through the winter and boosted the morale of him and his family.
On Christmas morning, Mohamed sends images of veggie starts he planted in the ground where his parents’ room once stood. Mint, arugula, parsley, green locust, spinach, radish, and onion. It is the finest gift I can remember.
His first message to me is this: “Hello my dear friend. I’m sorry to bother you. Unfortunately, crises are accumulating. No house, no clothes, and now there is famine and high prices for food commodities, vegetables, and flour. Please help so we can buy food. Prices are very, very high, and this is what makes us constantly need help.”
I send a donation, in spite of having a bad cold.
Like everyone I’ve been in touch with in Gaza, he is remarkably gracious—”I wish you recovery and safety.” The next day he sends this message: “How did you become my dear sister? I hope you are well.”
I tell him my head cold is persistent but it is nothing compared to what he is going through. We discuss the issue of humanitarian aid being blocked by the IDF, and he confirms that aid is also being stolen. We move on to the possibility of a cease-fire. “Yes, there are serious talks to end the war,” he says. “I hope they will succeed and this nightmare will end soon.”
He often wishes me good morning, and, since it is night for him, I wish him a good evening. “Goodness and happiness to you at all times, morning and evening,” he says.
“The same to you and your family,” I reply. “So many of us around the world want to see a free Palestine where there is peace and dignity, housing, bountiful food and water. Electricity! Schools! Playgrounds! Cultural centers and land to grow food. Is that too much to ask? I don’t think it is.”
He replies: “It will happen, my dear, no matter how late it is, but it will happen. I am optimistic, and what makes me so is your presence beside us and your sympathy with us.”
The next day he wishes me good morning and sends an image of bare ground between bombed buildings. “Here was my father and mother’s room. It has been cleaned of rubble, and I will plant it.” Initially I think he means he will rebuild it. More clarity on this emerges days later.
I congratulate him on the task but receive no response, which is unusual when new Gaza friends and I are in messaging mode. I message again but still no response. “Please tell me you and Judy and your extended family are alright. Al Jazeera says Israeli forces are bombing Khan Younis today,” I write. NPR posts an Associated Press report that at least 20 people, including five children, were killed by Israeli strikes across Gaza that day. In the southern city of Khan Younis, where Mohamed and his family live, a husband and wife were killed in a strike just after midnight.
There are no new messages from Mohamed that day. Finally in the morning he lets all of his Facebook friends know that someone tried to hack his Facebook page: “My dear friends, the Facebook account has been restored after it was locked due to a hacking attempt. Thank you very much to everyone who helped me.”
I message him, “You have many brothers and sisters around the world. And while we may not be able to give you everything you need, like a cease-fire and a restored landscape, we are not going anywhere.”
Mohamed replies, “You are the closest to my heart. You are my family and my loved ones. I wish I could meet you all and put a kiss on your forehead.”
“Perhaps we will all meet you someday,” I reply. “Until then we send you life and breath from far, far away.”
On Christmas morning, Mohamed sends images of veggie starts he planted in the ground where his parents’ room once stood. Mint, arugula, parsley, green locust, spinach, radish, and onion. It is the finest gift I can remember.
GoFundMe requests come in daily. I can’t answer the need on my own. But if you can help even in a small way, please message me.
Martha Baskin is a member of Jewish Voice for Peace Seattle and a semi-retired reporter
