In the heart of Gaza, where sirens tear through the sky and dust clouds choke the broken streets, a mother whispers a prayer each morning. Her name is Shaima Nassar. Every day, she asks the same thing:
“God, please let my son live another day without pain.”

Her little boy, Amir, was born into a world trembling with conflict. But his first breath was a miracle. Every heartbeat since has been a quiet act of defiance against despair.

When Amir was born, Shaima thought he looked too fragile to survive. Tiny fingers, weak breaths, pale skin under the hospital lights. Doctors told her he had a serious congenital condition that would make life harder than for most children. Their words were gentle, but heavy. Shaima held her newborn, feeling the fragile beat of his heart. “He will live,” she whispered, as if saying it aloud could make it true.

From the beginning, life was harder than expected. Hospitals were overwhelmed, basic medicines scarce. Power outages made incubators cold. Drinking water was limited. Even infant formula was hard to find. Shaima stayed awake night after night, rocking Amir, trying to keep him warm and fed as walls shook from nearby explosions. She sang lullabies, not just for him, but to chase away her own fear.

As Amir grew, his condition became clearer. He could not walk like other children. His muscles were weak, his body stiff with pain. Doctors recommended specialized care, therapy, and nutrition — luxuries in a place where clean water itself was rare. Every hospital visit was a struggle. Sometimes they had to pass multiple checkpoints to reach a clinic. Sometimes ambulances had no fuel. Sometimes clinics were damaged from the night before.

But Shaima refused to give up.

She learned to massage his legs to ease cramps. She collected scraps of foam to make a new cushion when his old one wore out. When he could not attend therapy, she taught herself exercises from old videos saved on a neighbor’s phone before the internet went down. She became doctor, nurse, and teacher all at once — because no one else would.

In a world full of broken things, she built her own version of care.

Every morning, Amir wakes to his mother’s voice:
“Good morning, my little warrior,” she says, helping him sit up. His eyes — bright, curious, endlessly gentle — light up the small room they share. Amir does not speak easily, but his smile says it all. In that smile, Shaima finds her own strength.

Some days, his body shakes uncontrollably. Fevers hit, and medicines run out. Shaima presses a cool cloth to his forehead, hums softly, praying the fever will pass before nightfall. Outside, the world burns. Inside their tiny shelter, love is the only constant.

Food is scarce. Many nights, Shaima pretends she has eaten so Amir can have the last piece of bread. Other nights, they sleep hungry, the distant roar of airstrikes filling the silence. Yet even in these moments, Amir reaches for his mother’s face, reminding her that love remains.

His laughter is pure, almost out of place amid Gaza’s ruins. Neighbors sometimes pause outside their window just to hear it. “I never thought joy could exist here,” an elderly woman said once. Shaima only smiled. “Joy lives wherever love is.”

Still, challenges never stop. Amir needs special nutrition to stay healthy, and formula is more expensive than Shaima earns in a month. She cleans whenever she can, but work is uncertain, and danger is everywhere. She often walks miles through ruined streets, carrying Amir to find medicine or scarce food. Her back aches, her feet swell, but she keeps going — because a mother never stops when her child needs her.

Recently, a local volunteer told Shaima about GoFundMe. At first, she could not imagine strangers from around the world helping someone they had never met. But desperation makes people brave. One night, after putting Amir to sleep, she used her old phone and candlelight to write her story:

“I am Shaima Nassar, Amir’s mother. My son was born with a disability and lives in Gaza. Every day is a struggle — finding medicine, comforting him, keeping him safe. I am doing everything I can, but I cannot do it alone. Please help, from one mother to another.”

When she clicked “publish,” she cried — not from shame, but from fragile hope.

A few days later, donations arrived. Small amounts from strangers in distant countries. A woman in France sent €20. Someone from Spain gave €50. A message from Germany: “To Amir, with love and prayers.” Another from Canada: “You are not alone.”

Shaima could hardly believe it. She showed Amir the screen. He did not understand fully, but clapped and smiled.
“Look,” she whispered, tears streaming. “They see you. They care.”

Each donation brought not just money, but dignity. She could buy medicines. She could feed Amir properly, even if only for a few weeks. For the first time in months, she slept without a heavy weight on her chest.

Fear never fully disappeared. Bombs continued to fall, hospitals remained crowded. Shaima learned to live with uncertainty. Some nights she wakes to sirens, rushing to shield Amir with her body, heart pounding. In those moments, time seems to stand still. “If anything happens,” she once said to a friend, “I pray God takes me before taking him.”

What keeps her going, she says, is not courage, but love. “Courage is simply love that refuses to quit,” she explains softly.

Every morning, she tells Amir stories — birds flying past walls, oceans he will one day see, a world where children play without fear. He listens with wide eyes, sometimes attempting the word “freedom.” Weak, broken, but beautiful — the sound is the most precious she has ever heard.

Despite suffering, Amir shows no bitterness. He smiles at everyone, waves at strangers, and finds joy in the smallest things — a cup of tea with his mother, sunlight through a window, rain on the tin roof.
“He teaches me,” Shaima says, “that even when the world gives you nothing, you can still give love.”

Occasionally, relief convoys reach their area, bringing food and essentials. Shaima thanks volunteers but rarely takes more than needed. “There are others hungrier than us,” she says. Her generosity, even in hardship, humbles those around her.

Doctors warn that Amir’s condition will worsen without regular treatment. He needs physical therapy and proper nutrition, luxuries unavailable in Gaza. Shaima’s only choice is to continue asking for help — something that feels unnatural. “A mother does not ask easily,” she admits. “But I am not asking for myself. I am asking for my son’s future.”

GoFundMe remains her lifeline. Every new donation sparks hope, enough to push back fear. The goal is modest — €2,000 — but for her, it represents survival, the chance to buy food, pay for medicine, and perhaps one day escape Gaza to a place where Amir can receive proper care.

For now, they survive day by day. Every sunrise is an opportunity to hold on. Every night ends with Shaima whispering: “Tomorrow will be better.”

No one knows Amir’s future. But everyone who hears his story knows one thing: he has changed their lives. His laughter cuts through despair like sunlight through shattered glass. His innocence reminds the world that humanity persists, even in places where hope seems extinguished.

Shaima says Amir is not her burden; he is her blessing. “He came into this world to show me what unconditional love truly means,” she says. “I used to think strength was something grand, like defiance. But real strength is gentle — like a child smiling even with nothing in hand.”

In a world that measures power by violence, Amir’s quiet existence is the purest act of resistance. He does not fight with weapons or anger. He fights simply by living, choosing joy when sorrow would be easier, proving that love can still bloom amid ruin.

One day, Shaima dreams Amir will walk on grass, play freely, attend school, and perhaps become a doctor to help others like him. She does not know when or how, but she believes it will happen.

Until then, she continues. She washes his clothes by hand. She soothes his pain when he cries. She draws strength from faith and strangers’ kindness. And every night, as she watches him sleep peacefully in her arms, she whispers a final promise:
“You are safe, my angel. I will never stop fighting for you.”

Outside, Gaza trembles. Inside, a mother and her son hold onto the one thing the world cannot destroy — love.