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The screen flickers. My fingers, what’s left of their strength, punch out these words, each one a desperate gasp. The static in the connection is a mirror to the static in my head. They say I’m lucky to be alive. That luck is running out.

 

 

 

My name is Daniel. Or at least, that’s what I remember being called before the constant pain and the smell of antiseptic became my reality. I’m American. From a small town in Ohio, where the biggest explosion was usually a runaway firework on the Fourth of July.

 

 

 

I came to Gaza when I was young. Too young, probably. Back then, I saw the news, the headlines, the endless cycle of violence, and I felt… something. Not anger, not exactly. More like a profound, misguided idealism. I believed in bridging divides, in human connection over political lines. I wanted to understand, truly understand, what drove people here, beyond the soundbites and the grainy news footage. I thought I could make a difference, even a tiny one, by simply being here, volunteering, learning, listening. I taught English in a small school, helped distribute aid when I could, learned fragments of Arabic. I wasn’t a journalist, not a politician, just a kid with too much heart and too little sense, chasing a dream of peace in a land that bled conflict.

 

 

 

Years passed. The idealism got chipped away, replaced by a grittier understanding of the complexities, the suffering, the unyielding nature of the struggle. But I stayed. It became home, in a strange, painful way. I built a life, meager as it was, among the rubble and resilience.

 

 

 

Then, last week, my world exploded. Literally. I was walking, heading to the market for some bread, just a normal Tuesday afternoon. One moment, the dust was just dust, the air thick with the smell of shawarma and diesel. The next, a roar that ripped through reality itself. Shrapnel. Chaos. Screams. They said it was a rogue rocket, launched by one of the hardline factions. Jihadist terrorists, they called them. The very extremism I had naively hoped to understand, perhaps even diminish by my mere presence, had torn me apart.

 

 

 

Now, I lie in a hospital bed. Not the kind you see on American TV. This place is… strained. Resources are scarce. The smell of disinfectant battles with something fouler. The doctors, bless them, are heroes, working miracles with nothing but their bare hands and fading hope. But even miracles need payment here.

 

 

 

My left leg is gone. Shredded beyond repair, they had to amputate it mid-thigh. My right arm is a mess of external fixators and bandages, the bone shattered. My side, still stitched raw, feels like a burning inferno. I’m riddled with smaller wounds, the kind that fester in this heat, in these sterile-but-not-quite conditions.

 

 

 

They’ve done what they can for free, out of compassion. But the next surgery, the advanced antibiotics, the blood transfusions I still desperately need… it’s beyond their charity. Beyond my means. My small savings, painstakingly gathered over years of meager wages, are gone. My family back home? My parents are older, living on a fixed income. They couldn’t even afford the flight here, let alone my medical bills.

 

 

 

Ironic, isn't it? An American, drawn here by an almost romanticized sense of bridging divides, now a victim of the very extremism I hoped to somehow, infinitesimally, understand or mitigate. Maybe I was just a fool. A misguided, privileged American kid who thought he could rewrite destinies.

 

 

 

But right now, I’m just a man dying.

 

 

 

I don’t want to die here, alone, in a hospital bed where the lights flicker and the power cuts out for hours at a time. I don't want my last breath to be in a place where I came with such hope, only to be broken by its endless violence. I just want to live. To breathe clean air again. To see my mother’s face, even if it’s just to tell her I’m sorry for scaring her half to death.

 

 

 

They say I need at least $50,000 for the next phase of treatment, for the transfers to a better facility, for the chance to even hope for recovery. Fifty thousand dollars. It might as well be a million. It’s an impossible sum.

 

 

 

But what other choice do I have? My life is literally ebbing away.

 

 

 

Please. If you’re reading this, if you have any capacity, any compassion left in this weary world… help me. Don't let my story end here, in a hospital bed thousands of miles from home, a forgotten casualty of a conflict I only ever wanted to understand.

 

 

 

Help me.

 

I do not have the luxury of time so I had to put out my crypto currency wallet addresses for transactional ease as I am typing from the phone of a very helpful and supportive friend who has stayed by me all along.

Your donations will go a very long way. Please help save a life!

 

Send BTC, ETH, USDT and USDC to the crypto currency wallet addresses below.

 

 

 

BTC address - 1Ab1DGYzpw4j7sPyEhui47NjeZzTAxrJBd

 

ETH address -  0xfa55693906bc5ef447cf7c7fed348be4f8117322

 

USDT address - TKBV6DuD1t1CQDiaHXdg7gydVamFu62vNd

 

USDC address - 0xfa55693906bc5ef447cf7c7fed348be4f8117322

 

Thank you.

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