My friends, especially my friends in America,
I am Palestinian, from Gaza. Gaza is not a headline. It is not a hashtag on social media. It is my home. It is the room I grew up in. It is the street where I learned to ride my bike. It is my grandfather’s house, where he told stories of Jaffa and the orange groves. It is the voices of neighbors at night, the smell of bread in the morning, and my mother’s laugh as she tried to hide her fear.
All of it, every corner, every street, every home in this city, even my own home, has been reduced to rubble.
The sky is gray and heavy with smoke and dust, carrying the echo of destruction. There are no neighbors to greet, no streets to walk, no playgrounds for children, no markets, no life as we once knew it.
In Gaza, a home is not just walls and a roof. It is years of labor, hope, survival, and dreams. It is where stories are passed from generation to generation, where memories take root, where a family’s life grows. In a single moment, it can all vanish. Every coin saved, every hour worked, every plan for tomorrow can be destroyed.
Imagine for a single moment that you wake up in New York, Texas, or California and sirens scream through the city. The sky turns gray with smoke. A message flashes that your neighborhood no longer exists. You return and your home is gone. Every picture, every memory, every object that defined your life is erased.
Imagine all your work, all your extra hours, all the taxes you paid, every plan for the future destroyed in a single minute. What would remain of you? What would remain of your dignity?
In Gaza, this is not imagination. This is reality every day.
I do not write to incite hatred. I do not write to debate politics. I write because I am human. I watch my home erased. I watch my family’s life reduced to dust.
You in America understand hard work. You understand building a life step by step. You understand dreaming for your children. We are no different.
We do not ask for the impossible. We do not ask for privilege. We ask only for our children to sleep without memorizing the shapes of rockets before learning the alphabet, for death not to become a daily routine.
Imagine the world viewing your homes the way it views ours, as numbers, as collateral damage, as unimportant details in a security equation. How would that feel?
I am Palestinian. My home is not a number. My life is not a footnote in a report. My mother is not collateral damage. My dreams are not a postponed file.
My friends in America, I do not ask you to carry my grief. I ask only that you imagine yourselves in my place for one minute. If your home fell, if your labor was stolen, if your child asked, “Why is our home gone?” what would you do? What would you hope the world would do for you?
I do not write out of anger alone. I write out of fear for what remains of our shared humanity. When a home loses its meaning in Gaza, tomorrow it can lose its meaning anywhere.
See us as human beings, not as a conflict headline. Ask whether policies reflect your values. Ask whether peace can be built by erasing an entire people. Ask whether security can be achieved by denying millions their safety and rights.
During Donald Trump’s administration, American support for Israel continued without limits. The recognition of Jerusalem as the capital, the move of the embassy, and the Peace to Prosperity plan left Palestinian rights ignored. In Washington, these may be seen as political achievements. In Gaza, they are demolished walls, broken dreams, and nights filled with fear.
Every day and every hour, everything is under threat. Every step is a risk. Fear is constant. Life is measured in seconds of survival.
I do not ask for hatred. I do not ask for blind rage. I ask for fairness.
See us as human beings deserving of safety, just as you have in New York, Texas, or California. Imagine everything you built with your own hands disappearing before your eyes, your memories, your safety, your plans erased by decisions made far away.
I am still here. My dignity survives. I write so the world knows that Palestinian lives are not numbers in an election plan, but reality filled with rubble, loss, fear, destroyed homes, and broken streets.
Each day brings new destruction. Each hour is a test of survival. Every minute holds fear. This is not news on television. This is life here. Real blood. Real rubble. Real fear. Real loss.
Imagine walking down streets that once held children laughing. The shops are closed, the buildings hollowed, the walls collapsed. Every step could fall through ash or debris. Every breath carries smoke, dust, and memories of what once was.
Time does not heal here. It adds loss upon loss.
Look at us as human beings, not as a headline. Demand accountability. Ask whether policies made far away reflect your values. Ask whether peace can be built by erasing an entire people. Ask whether security can exist while millions are denied protection.
I am Palestinian from Gaza. I write about lives stolen, futures erased, and safety lost.
Politics is not only about interests. It is life. It is humanity. It is everything.
الله غالب
Fares Abulebda
26 February 2026



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