aladhammuh

[aladhammuh]

"The Last Game"

The stadium had always been his sanctuary. The roar of the crowd, the thud of the ball against his foot, the rush of adrenaline as he sprinted toward the goal—these were the moments he lived for. Football wasn’t just a game to him. It was his passion, his dream, his way out of the difficult life he’d known growing up. Every match was a step closer to a future he had been building since he was a child.

He was fast, skilled, and had the sharp instincts of a natural striker. Scouts from bigger teams had started to take notice, and he was on the verge of making it to a professional club. Everyone in his small town knew him as "the one who would make it," and he had worked harder than anyone to live up to that expectation.

But then the war came.

It started in the distance, like an echo of some distant conflict that he thought would never reach his town. Life went on as usual—he practiced, played matches, and dreamt of the day when he’d sign his first professional contract. But as weeks passed, the echoes grew louder. Gunfire, explosions, and eventually, the war found its way to his doorstep.

The day everything changed started like any other. He had gone to the field early to practice free kicks, visualizing the moment when he’d score the winning goal in a packed stadium. The town, however, was on edge. People were talking about the fighting getting closer, the army moving in, but he blocked it all out. Football was his focus—his escape from the harsh reality surrounding him.

Suddenly, an explosion rocked the ground beneath him. The blast wasn’t far away, and panic spread through the streets. Without thinking, he ran, instinctively heading toward home to check on his family. As he sprinted down the street, the world around him erupted in chaos. Bombs were falling, buildings crumbling, and the sounds of war drowned out everything else.

And then, in an instant, his world went dark.

He woke up in a hospital, his body aching, his mind foggy. At first, he didn’t understand what had happened. There was an overwhelming silence in the room, interrupted only by the distant sounds of machines beeping. He tried to sit up, but pain shot through his body, and then—he noticed it.

His right leg was gone.

The shock was like a punch to the gut. He couldn’t believe it. He tried to move, tried to feel his leg, but all he felt was an empty space beneath the blanket. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he couldn’t even scream. Everything he had worked for, everything he had dreamt of—it was gone. His football career, the matches, the goals, the future he had imagined—it had all been taken from him in a single, cruel moment.

The doctors told him it was a miracle he had survived. The explosion had killed many, and his injuries had been severe. They spoke about rehabilitation, about how he could still live a full life, but he didn’t hear any of it. All he could think about was the field, the ball, and the fact that he would never run again. He would never play football again.

The days that followed were a blur of pain, both physical and emotional. His friends visited, offering words of support, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at them. He had always been the strong one, the one who carried their hopes, the one who would make it out. And now, he was just another victim of a war that had stolen everything from him.

Weeks later, when he was finally able to return home, the town was barely recognizable. The once-lively streets were now scarred by the destruction. Homes were reduced to rubble, and the field where he had spent countless hours chasing his dreams was now covered in debris. It was as though the war had taken not just his leg, but the very heart of the place he called home.

He found himself sitting by the side of the field one evening, watching as the sun set over the ruins. His crutches leaned against the bench beside him, and for the first time since the explosion, he allowed himself to cry. The grief, the anger, the despair—it all came pouring out. He had lost more than just a limb; he had lost a part of himself.

But as the tears dried, he looked out at the field, and a strange sense of resolve began to form within him. Football had always been his life, and while he couldn’t play the way he used to, he realized that the game didn’t have to end for him. He could still be a part of it, still contribute in ways he hadn’t thought possible before.

Over time, he began to coach the local kids, many of whom had been orphaned or displaced by the war. They looked up to him, not just because of his past as a rising football star, but because of his resilience. He taught them about the game, about teamwork, about the importance of never giving up—even when life seemed unbearably cruel.

In those moments, on the sidelines, watching the children run and play with the same passion he had once felt, he found a new sense of purpose. The war had taken his leg, but it hadn’t taken his love for football, or his desire to inspire others.

And while he would never again score the winning goal or feel the rush of sprinting down the field, he had found something else—something just as important. He had found a way to keep the game alive, to pass on his knowledge, his love for the sport, and his belief that, even in the face of unimaginable loss, life could still go on.

The war had stolen a piece of him, but it hadn’t taken everything. And in that, he found his strength.

story n.o 6 of about 2 million stories

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[aladhammuh]

"The Unborn Hope"

The war had come unexpectedly, as wars often do, ripping apart lives and dreams without warning. In the middle of it all was a mother, carrying more than just hope within her—she was carrying life. Her baby, a precious child who had never seen the light of day, had become the one source of strength she clung to as the world around her crumbled.

The sound of bombs and gunfire filled the air, but she would sit quietly in the small, dark corner of their home, her hand resting gently on her growing belly. Each flutter, each kick from the child within her, was a reminder that even in the midst of destruction, there was still life, still something to fight for. She had dreamed of holding her baby, of feeling the warmth of that tiny body against hers, of hearing the first cry that would break the silence of the devastation outside.

But war has no mercy.

One day, the explosions came too close. The house shook violently as the ground beneath her trembled. She clutched her belly, trying to protect the child within, her heart racing with fear. She knew she had to get to safety, but it was too late. The blast wave knocked her to the ground, and pain shot through her body like lightning.

She cried out, not for herself, but for the baby she had hoped to meet. The baby she had sung lullabies to in the quiet of the night, the baby whose future she had imagined, even as the world around them collapsed.

Hours later, she was found, alive but broken. The baby, her unborn hope, was gone.

In the aftermath, as she lay in a makeshift hospital, the world felt emptier than ever. The war had taken her home, her safety, and now, it had taken her child. The grief was unbearable, a deep wound that she knew would never fully heal.

But as she closed her eyes and let the tears fall, she whispered a promise to the child she never had the chance to meet: "You were loved. You will always be loved."

story number 5 of about 2 million stories

[aladhammuh]

"The Empty Home"

The house was still, an eerie quiet settling over the rooms that had once been filled with laughter, conversation, and the gentle hum of daily life. The man sat at the kitchen table, his hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long since gone cold. He stared at the empty chairs across from him, where his wife and daughter used to sit, their faces vivid in his memory but now only ghosts in the silence.

He had lost them both.

The war had come slowly at first, creeping like a distant storm, and no one in the village believed it would reach their doorsteps. For years, the fighting had remained far off, distant echoes of violence that belonged to another world. But as time passed, the storm drew closer, and then it arrived with a sudden, brutal force.

The night it happened was a blur of fire and smoke. He had been out working in the fields, trying to finish before dusk. The air had been thick with the threat of rain, but instead of water, the skies rained down bombs. The first explosion shook the earth beneath his feet, and he had run—faster than he ever thought possible—back toward the village, toward home, toward his family.

But by the time he reached it, the house was in flames.

His heart pounded in his chest as he screamed their names, over and over, hoping, praying, that somehow they had escaped. But deep down, he knew. He could feel the loss settling in his bones even before the villagers pulled him away, their hands firm on his shoulders as they led him to the edge of the village, away from the burning remains of the life he had once known.

Later, he learned that it had been a missile, one of the many that had struck the village that evening, leveling homes and taking lives in the blink of an eye. His wife had been in the kitchen, preparing dinner, their daughter sitting at the table with her schoolbooks spread out before her. They hadn’t stood a chance.

In the days that followed, he moved through life in a daze. The grief was so profound that it seemed to swallow him whole, numbing his body and mind. The funerals were small, hastily arranged between the destruction, and he could barely bring himself to stand at their graves. How could they be gone? Just a few days earlier, they had been here, with him. His wife’s gentle smile as she kissed him on the cheek before bed, his daughter’s infectious laugh as she told him about her day at school.

Now, there was nothing.

The village, once vibrant and full of life, had become a wasteland of broken buildings and shattered families. Some had fled, seeking refuge in camps far from the fighting, while others, like him, had nowhere to go. He stayed because he couldn’t bear to leave. It was as though leaving would mean abandoning them, leaving behind the only pieces of them he had left—their home, their memories, their lives.

Days turned into weeks, and the war raged on. The nights were the worst, when the darkness pressed in around him, and the absence of their voices became a physical pain in his chest. He would sit in their empty bedroom, staring at his wife’s side of the bed, untouched since that night. His daughter’s room was still filled with her things, her favorite stuffed animal resting on her pillow, her school uniform neatly folded on the chair where she had left it.

He couldn’t bring himself to touch anything. It felt as if disturbing those small remnants of their lives would erase them completely, as if the fragile thread that still connected him to them would snap.

One evening, as the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting the sky in a deep, fiery orange, he sat on the front steps of the house, the air heavy with the scent of burning wood and distant gunfire. He watched as the village children—those who were left—played in the dirt, their laughter a hollow echo of the life that had once been.

A neighbor approached him, offering a quiet word of condolence, suggesting that he leave the village and seek safety elsewhere. But he shook his head. This was the only place that still felt real, even in its ruin. Everywhere else was just an unknown, a place without them, without the memories of the life he had built with his wife and the future he had dreamed of for his daughter.

He spent his days in the shell of the house, sometimes fixing what little he could, though most of it was beyond repair. It gave him something to do, a way to pass the hours, even if the effort seemed futile. Other times, he simply sat in the silence, letting the grief wash over him in waves—some gentle, some crushing, all of them a reminder of what he had lost.

But even in the depths of his sorrow, there were moments when he could almost hear them. His wife’s soft voice calling him in for dinner, his daughter’s footsteps running down the hall. He knew it was only his mind playing tricks, but he held on to those moments, fleeting though they were, as a way to feel close to them again.

He didn’t know how long the war would last, or if it would ever end. All he knew was that he had lost the two people who mattered most to him, and the world would never be the same. The house that had once been filled with love and warmth now stood as a monument to the life that had been stolen from him.

And yet, as broken as he was, he remained. Because leaving would mean letting go. And he wasn’t ready to do that—not now, and maybe not ever.

So, he stayed in the empty house, holding on to the memories of his wife and daughter, even as the war raged on outside.

The fourth story of about 2 million stories

[aladhammuh]

"The Silent Room"

The house was quieter than it had ever been. The walls seemed to absorb the silence, creating a weight so heavy that she could hardly breathe. She stood in the doorway of his room, unable to cross the threshold, her eyes fixed on the bed that still carried the faint imprint of where he used to sleep.

He had been her only child, her heart and soul, the reason she rose in the morning and the reason she found the strength to face each day. His laughter had once filled the house, bouncing off the walls and spilling out into the yard where he’d played as a child. Every corner of the home bore traces of him—his toys, long forgotten in a box under the stairs, the scuffed walls from his boyhood games, the books on his desk that he had planned to take with him when he went to college.

But he never made it to college.

The war had stolen him before he could even step into adulthood.

It all happened so fast. One day, he was packing his things, talking excitedly about the future, about the friends he would make, the classes he would take. The next, the war had reached their town. They had heard the distant sounds of gunfire and explosions for weeks, but it had always seemed far away, like a bad dream that wouldn’t touch them. Until it did.

She remembered the day he told her he was leaving to join the fight. His eyes, once full of youthful joy, were now hard with determination. "I have to, Mama," he had said. "I can’t just stand by while others suffer."

She had pleaded with him, begged him not to go, to stay safe, to stay with her. But he had been resolute. "It’s our home," he said softly, "and I need to defend it."

That was the last time she saw him alive.

The days that followed were a blur of waiting, of hoping, of fearing. She would listen for any news, scanning the radio, asking neighbors, praying that someone would say they had seen him, that he was safe, that the fighting had ended.

But the war, relentless and unforgiving, showed no mercy.

Then, one morning, there was a knock on the door. She opened it to find two men in uniforms, their faces grave. They didn’t need to say anything; she already knew. But they spoke anyway, telling her that her son had fallen in battle, that he had been brave, that he had fought until the end.

Their words echoed in her mind, but they were empty, meaningless. Her son was gone. Her boy, who had once run through the house with boundless energy, who had clung to her skirts as a child, who had kissed her on the cheek every night before bed—he was gone.

In the days that followed, the house felt like a tomb. People came to offer their condolences, bringing food and flowers, speaking in hushed tones. But none of it made a difference. The only thing that mattered, the only thing she wanted, was to hold her son again, to hear his voice, to know that he was safe. And that would never happen.

She found herself drawn to his room every day, standing at the doorway but never entering. It was as if crossing into that space would make it real, would solidify the terrible truth that her son was no longer part of this world. His bed remained neatly made, just as he had left it. His shoes sat by the door, his jacket hung on the back of the chair, as if he might walk in at any moment.

But he wouldn’t.

One evening, as the sun set outside and the shadows lengthened, she finally stepped inside. The air was thick with memories, each one pulling at her heart. She sat on the edge of his bed, her fingers tracing the patterns on the quilt she had sewn for him when he was a child. She picked up one of his books, the pages marked with his notes, his thoughts captured in the margins.

Tears came then, unstoppable and fierce, as the weight of her loss pressed down on her. She clutched the book to her chest, as if holding it could somehow bring him back, could somehow fill the gaping hole in her heart.

But all that remained was the silence.

The world outside moved on. The war continued, lives were lost, and the village slowly crumbled under the weight of violence. But inside that room, time stood still. The world had stopped the moment her son had taken his last breath, and she was left behind, stranded in a life that no longer felt like her own.

Months passed, and the pain became something she learned to carry, though it never lessened. She kept his room just as it had been, a sanctuary of memories. Some nights, she would sit by the window, looking out at the stars, wondering if he was up there somewhere, watching over her. She would talk to him, softly, telling him about the things that had happened that day, the things he would have laughed at, the things she wished he could still experience.

But there was no answer, only the quiet night and the whispers of the wind.

And so, she lived with the memories, with the silence, and with the overwhelming ache of a mother who had lost her only child to a war that had taken so much more than just lives. It had taken her reason for being, her joy, and the light of her world.

The third story of about 2 million stories

All this stories represent every single family in #GAZA

https://gofund.me/d695c384

[aladhammuh]

"The House of Memories"

The house had stood at the edge of the village for generations, a simple structure of stone and wood, weathered by time but full of warmth. It was more than just a house—it was the heart of a family. Every corner held a memory, every room echoed with laughter, and every crack in the walls told a story of lives lived within its embrace.

He had grown up there, surrounded by love and the soft hum of daily life. As a child, the garden had been his playground, a place where he chased butterflies and climbed the old olive tree in the backyard. The kitchen always smelled of fresh bread, and his mother would hum softly as she prepared meals. His father’s tools were neatly arranged in the shed, where he would spend hours fixing things, always saying, “This house takes care of us, so we must take care of it.”

But then, the war came.

It started with distant sounds, like far-off thunder rolling across the hills. No one in the village paid much attention at first. Wars had come and gone before, always passing by like storms that never lingered. But this time, the storm didn’t pass. It grew closer, until the distant booms became loud explosions, shaking the earth beneath their feet.

One night, the sky lit up in a way he had never seen before. Not with the soft glow of the stars, but with the harsh, orange light of fires burning in the distance. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and fear. He and his family gathered what they could, just a few belongings, and fled into the night, leaving behind the house that had sheltered them for so long.

They found themselves in a crowded camp, far from the village, surrounded by others who had also lost everything. The days were long, filled with the gnawing uncertainty of not knowing when—or if—they would ever return home. He tried to focus on survival, on helping his family in whatever way he could. But his thoughts always drifted back to the house.

He remembered the sound of rain on the roof as he fell asleep at night, the way the light streamed through the kitchen window in the morning, and the cool shade of the olive tree where he had spent so many afternoons. The house wasn’t just a place; it was a part of him.

Months passed. News from the village was rare, but when it came, it was never good. The fighting had intensified, and the destruction was widespread. One day, word reached them that the village had been caught in the crossfire. His heart sank as he heard the news. He couldn’t bring himself to ask about the house, but he didn’t need to. He knew.

It was gone.

The news was like a punch to the gut, the final blow in a series of losses. The house that had been his refuge, his sanctuary, was now nothing more than a pile of rubble, just another casualty in a war that seemed to consume everything in its path. He felt hollow, as if a part of him had been buried beneath the ruins.

But life went on, even in the midst of loss. The camp became their new home, though it never felt like one. He tried to rebuild a sense of normalcy, but there was always an ache, a longing for the place that no longer existed.

Years later, when the war finally ended, he returned to the village. The landscape was unrecognizable—charred, broken, and scarred by violence. Where his childhood home had once stood was now just a foundation, blackened and crumbling, overgrown with weeds.

He stood there in silence, the memories flooding back with every breath. It was as if the house still lived in his mind, as vivid and real as it had been before. He could see the garden, the kitchen, his father’s tools in the shed. But when he opened his eyes, it was gone, swallowed by the passage of time and the cruelty of war.

He knelt down and placed his hand on the earth where the house had once stood. It was cold and hard, nothing like the warm, welcoming home he remembered. But in that moment, he realized that the house, though lost, would always be with him. The walls may have crumbled, the roof may have fallen, but the memories were indestructible.

And as he stood there, in the quiet of the ruined village, he understood that while the war had taken his house, it could never take away the love, the memories, or the sense of belonging that had been built within those walls.

That would stay with him, no matter where he went.

The second story of about 2 million stories.

https://gofund.me/d695c384

[aladhammuh]

"The Echoes of War"

Ahmed had always dreamed of becoming an engineer. He spent countless hours poring over textbooks, sketching blueprints, and imagining a future where he could help rebuild the crumbling infrastructure of his country. His college was a sanctuary, a place where he could escape the hardships of daily life and immerse himself in learning. He had a close-knit group of friends, and despite the conflicts brewing outside, his world was one of hope and ambition.

But everything changed the night the war came to his city.

It began with a distant rumble, like thunder on the horizon. Ahmed was at his desk, working on a project for his civil engineering class, when the first explosion rocked his neighborhood. The lights flickered, and then the power went out. His heart raced as he heard the shrill cries of his neighbors and the unmistakable sound of artillery fire. The war, which had once seemed far away, had arrived at his doorstep.

He grabbed his backpack, threw in a few essentials—his phone, a notebook, some clothes—and rushed downstairs to find his mother and younger brother. They had already gathered in the hallway, fear etched on their faces. His mother clutched a small suitcase, her hands trembling.

“We have to go,” Ahmed said, his voice steady despite the chaos outside.

They fled into the night, leaving behind the home that had sheltered them for generations. As they made their way through the war-torn streets, Ahmed couldn’t help but glance back at the college campus in the distance, its once vibrant buildings now shadowed by the glow of fires burning across the city.

Days turned into weeks as they moved from place to place, seeking refuge wherever they could find it. The war consumed everything in its path—homes, schools, hospitals—until there was little left but rubble. Ahmed’s dreams of graduation, of becoming an engineer, seemed like distant memories.

They eventually found themselves in a refugee camp on the outskirts of the city. It was a place of survival, not of hope. The tents were crowded, and the food scarce. Ahmed tried to continue his studies in whatever way he could, scribbling equations in the margins of newspapers or using broken pieces of chalk to draw diagrams on the cracked walls of abandoned buildings. But it was never the same.

One evening, as the sun set over the camp, Ahmed sat with his brother near the edge of the tent, watching the horizon. His brother, just twelve years old, had always looked up to him. But now, the light in his eyes was dim, replaced by the weight of loss and uncertainty.

“Do you think we’ll ever go back?” his brother asked quietly.

Ahmed stared at the distant city, now a ghost of what it had once been. He wanted to say yes, to give his brother some semblance of hope. But the truth was, he didn’t know. The war had taken everything from them—their home, their friends, their future.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice heavy with sorrow.

As the days passed, Ahmed found it harder and harder to keep going. His health began to deteriorate, worn down by the stress, the lack of food, and the constant fear. The once vibrant and hopeful college student was now a shadow of himself, lost in a war that had no end in sight.

One night, as the camp slept, Ahmed lay awake, listening to the wind rustling through the tents. He thought of his friends, scattered across the country, and wondered if they were still alive. He thought of the future he had once envisioned, now shattered by the war. And he thought of his mother and brother, sleeping beside him, and the burden he carried of trying to protect them in a world that had become so cruel.

The next morning, Ahmed didn’t wake up.

The war had claimed him, not with a bullet or an explosion, but with the slow, relentless erosion of everything that made him who he was. His family buried him in a small grave outside the camp, with only a simple stone to mark the place where he now rested.

In the days that followed, his brother took up the notebook Ahmed had left behind. He traced the lines of equations, the diagrams, the dreams of a future that could never be. And in those pages, he found a glimmer of the hope that Ahmed had once held so tightly.

Perhaps, one day, when the war was over, he could rebuild what had been lost.

One of about 2 million stories .

[aladhammuh]

Bonjour, je m'appelle Al-Adham, je suis un Palestinien de Gaza, car le monde entier voit que Gaza est en guerre, et tout le monde dans ce secteur a été exposé à toutes sortes de souffrances. Laissez-moi vous parler de ma vie avant la guerre. Je suis un étudiant universitaire qui étudie la nutrition clinique à l'Université Al-Azhar à Gaza. J'étais dans ma dernière année, et maintenant il n'y a pas d'université, j'ai été détruit par ce qui se passe maintenant. J'ai perdu ma vie, ma maison et mes proches, et j'ai perdu des membres de ma famille, et il n'y a rien qui puisse être fait maintenant. Je veux atteindre ma voix au monde, nous voulons vivre comme le monde ne vit que des vies seulement.

[aladhammuh]

Hello, my name is Al-Adham, I am a Palestinian from Gaza, as the whole world sees that Gaza is under war, and everyone in this sector was exposed to all kinds of suffering. Let me tell you about my life before the war. I am a university student studying clinical nutrition at Al-Azhar University in Gaza. I was in my last year, and now there is no university, I was destroyed by what is happening now. I lost my life, my home and my relatives, and I lost members of my family, and there is nothing that can be done now. I want to reach my voice to the world, we want to live as the world lives only lives only.

https://gofund.me/d695c384