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Islamic Relief’s Orphan Sponsorship Programme (OSP) in Palestine has grown from supporting 8,750 orphaned and vulnerable children before October 2023, to now supporting 17,775 children – many of whom were orphaned during this genocide.
Among them is 11-year-old Mariam who lives with her mother, Nariman, and four older sisters. Mariam has Down syndrome and has been struggling to understand why she and her family now live in a tent and cannot return to their beloved home. We spoke to Nariman about what life has been like for Mariam and the rest of her family for the past year and a half.
“Mariam is my youngest daughter. I worry about her a lot because she is so innocent and sociable. She loves everyone, even though she doesn’t speak much. She can only say ‘mama’ to call me, and ‘nana’ to indicate she’s hungry. Mariam often communicates through gestures. Her life was well structured before the war. She used to wake up in the morning, take the bus to her special school, return home, do her homework, and then sit with the family to watch TV. But this war has completely destroyed our lives. We woke up one day to find ourselves on the street and everything, including our home and belongings, was gone. We dream every day of a quiet, drone-free, bomb-free Gaza Now, we live in a tent inside a school, under unbearable conditions. There aren’t basic necessities. Every night, our mental state and my daughters’ suffering worsen. In this tent, we have lost our sense of safety. We can’t sleep because of the constant loud buzzing of drones, bombings, and the stray dogs roaming around. We dream every day of a quiet, drone-free, bomb-free Gaza. Even the bathroom is far from our tent, so we are forced to use a barrel at night. Mariam uses diapers, and she has developed severe rashes because of them. Even bathing is a struggle in the tent. We endure intolerable living conditions here. I cry every night. I’m afraid for [my daughters], especially Mariam. Mariam always wants to leave the tent, but I can’t let her go. If she gets lost, she won’t be able to say her family’s name. I’ve written her name and a contact number on a piece of paper for her in case of an emergency. I only let her go outside with her sisters when they fetch water. That is the only time I allow her out, just so she doesn’t feel trapped. Mariam has memorised our routine. She wakes up and goes with her sisters every morning to fetch water. She keeps asking me in gestures why we can’t return home, especially since sleeping on the ground is exhausting. We all sleep together on a single mattress laid out horizontally, covered with a few blankets. In the tent, cold is inescapable; it won’t leave us until the sun comes out. We lack everything, including blankets, mattresses and kitchen supplies. I repurpose empty cans into cooking pots and water containers. As for clothes, we each have only two outfits. We wash one and wear the other. Sometimes, we swap clothes with each other. This is heartbreaking, considering that our wardrobes were once full of beautiful and colourful clothes.
“Mariam is my youngest daughter. I worry about her a lot because she is so innocent and sociable. She loves everyone, even though she doesn’t speak much. She can only say ‘mama’ to call me, and ‘nana’ to indicate she’s hungry. Mariam often communicates through gestures.
Her life was well structured before the war. She used to wake up in the morning, take the bus to her special school, return home, do her homework, and then sit with the family to watch TV. But this war has completely destroyed our lives. We woke up one day to find ourselves on the street and everything, including our home and belongings, was gone.
We dream every day of a quiet, drone-free, bomb-free Gaza
Now, we live in a tent inside a school, under unbearable conditions. There aren’t basic necessities. Every night, our mental state and my daughters’ suffering worsen. In this tent, we have lost our sense of safety. We can’t sleep because of the constant loud buzzing of drones, bombings, and the stray dogs roaming around. We dream every day of a quiet, drone-free, bomb-free Gaza.
Even the bathroom is far from our tent, so we are forced to use a barrel at night. Mariam uses diapers, and she has developed severe rashes because of them. Even bathing is a struggle in the tent. We endure intolerable living conditions here.
I cry every night. I’m afraid for [my daughters], especially Mariam. Mariam always wants to leave the tent, but I can’t let her go. If she gets lost, she won’t be able to say her family’s name. I’ve written her name and a contact number on a piece of paper for her in case of an emergency. I only let her go outside with her sisters when they fetch water. That is the only time I allow her out, just so she doesn’t feel trapped.
Mariam has memorised our routine. She wakes up and goes with her sisters every morning to fetch water. She keeps asking me in gestures why we can’t return home, especially since sleeping on the ground is exhausting. We all sleep together on a single mattress laid out horizontally, covered with a few blankets. In the tent, cold is inescapable; it won’t leave us until the sun comes out.
We lack everything, including blankets, mattresses and kitchen supplies. I repurpose empty cans into cooking pots and water containers. As for clothes, we each have only two outfits. We wash one and wear the other. Sometimes, we swap clothes with each other. This is heartbreaking, considering that our wardrobes were once full of beautiful and colourful clothes.
The most painful moment… The most painful moment is when I take Mariam with me and we pass by our street, where we used to live. She starts screaming and pointing, wanting to go home, not realising that if she crosses the street, all she will find is a pile of rubble. Mariam mostly misses her bicycle, which she used to ride every day. Every time she sees someone riding a bike, she asks about hers. I can’t buy her another one. I try to help them adjust to this new reality. Maryam often cries, but I try to distract her with colouring books and pencils, as she loves to colour and write numbers. My eldest daughter, Nurhan, is studying dentistry. I can’t afford to pay her tuition fees, even though she is brilliant. I truly have no idea what to do. With the skyrocketing prices and our bad financial situation, all I dream of is to have a warm home to protect me and my daughters, and I call for a complete ceasefire in Gaza.
The most painful moment…
The most painful moment is when I take Mariam with me and we pass by our street, where we used to live. She starts screaming and pointing, wanting to go home, not realising that if she crosses the street, all she will find is a pile of rubble.
Mariam mostly misses her bicycle, which she used to ride every day. Every time she sees someone riding a bike, she asks about hers. I can’t buy her another one. I try to help them adjust to this new reality. Maryam often cries, but I try to distract her with colouring books and pencils, as she loves to colour and write numbers.
My eldest daughter, Nurhan, is studying dentistry. I can’t afford to pay her tuition fees, even though she is brilliant. I truly have no idea what to do. With the skyrocketing prices and our bad financial situation, all I dream of is to have a warm home to protect me and my daughters, and I call for a complete ceasefire in Gaza.
Islamic Relief’s Orphan Sponsorship Programme in Gaza financially supports children like Mariam, and their caregiving families, to access nutritional food, shelter, healthcare, clothing, personal hygiene items, trauma counselling, education, and other necessities.
However, in addition to nonstop bombardment, Israel’s total blockade on Gaza is devastating all emergency relief efforts and people’s abilities to access even the bare minimum for their survival.
We continue to advocate for the urgent entry of humanitarian aid and a permanent ceasefire, and we call on you to help us prepare to scale our provision of hot meals and other life-saving aid to the people of Gaza, as soon as the situation allows.