I write to you from Gaza, more than two years into a relentless genocide. We have survived, barely, and I write to you again, not just with words, but with the weight of everything we’ve endured. Together, we continue the journey, holding on to our shared belief in humanity, in our duty to protect what remains of our people’s dignity, and to give them a reason to hope again.

The genocide may be declared over, but what ended with it was the chance at a decent life. In Gaza, the very basics of human existence have been stripped away: shelter, food, health, education, safety; all gone.

They shattered our land and broke our people. They silenced homes, erased entire families, humiliated dignity, imprisoned love, and left behind a silence too heavy to bear. Even now, I struggle to believe it all truly happened.

And yet, throughout these two brutal years, MECA never stopped. Not for a single day. We stood, and still stand, driven by love, by duty, by the stubborn hope that refuses to die.

Today, we continue, with you. Because our people deserve more than survival. They deserve dignity, rights, and a future. And that’s why I write to you again because the journey is not over, and we still have so much to do..

For two years of war, we fought for life in every drop of water. We powered hundreds of wells with generators, so families could drink, wash, and survive. We handed out millions of liters of clean water from moving trucks. But water is a daily right, not a temporary act of mercy. We must continue. We must build desalination plants. The thirst is growing, not fading.

We set up community kitchens, serving millions of meals with love and urgency. But hunger still knocks on every door, it devours the heart before the body. We cannot turn away now.

We delivered hundreds of thousands of food parcels, hygiene supplies, and shelter materials. But human dignity cannot survive on occasional aid. We must give more with respect, not pity to keep people standing tall, not begging for survival.

We built clinics and nutrition centers, yet malnutrition is rising, silently stealing childhoods. We cannot stop. Not now. Not when their bodies are still shrinking.

We opened an education center where children dared to dream again. They laughed, they learned, they felt safe for a moment. And we will build more, together, because hope is just as vital as food.

We continue to dance, to sing, to breathe joy into broken days. Our psychosocial projects are not a luxury, they are how we survive. This is our soul’s resistance. This is how our children stay human.

We gave out tents, helped raise camps that could protect people from the cruel winter winds. Because shelter isn’t a gift. It’s a right.

We handed out warm clothes, coats wrapped around little shoulders and in doing so, we tried to wrap them in warmth, in care, in reassurance that someone still sees them.

But in order for us to be able to reach more people and do more, the blockade on Gaza must be lifted. People need to live in their own homes, warm during this harshly cold winter. They need to eat better food, to alleviate little by little the ramifications of the Israeli-manufactured famine. They need access to the treatments and medications they need! And children need books, crayons, backpacks and much more to experience childhood.

The needs are overwhelming. Far greater than any one of us. Your support today doesn’t just meet a need, it brings life back, it breathes hope into exhausted hearts, it tells our people: you are not alone. And we will not stop doing our part, until we are no longer needed.