Gaza
Mohammed Hashem, 38, from Khan Younis, is a single father raising his two-year-old son, Yusef. His wife, Reem, and older son, Ismail, were killed in an Israeli airstrike in December
Dear Yusef,
There are no words to describe the horrors we have been through these past few months. Last year, we sat around a dinner table as a family of four, making plans for the future. Now it’s just me and you – and our only hope is to survive tomorrow.
I often think back to our family picnic on the beach last summer. Your brother Ismail ran towards the sea and your mother chased after him, both laughing. I sat holding you in the shade and watched them – and I thought to myself: I must be the luckiest man in the world.
But in less than a year, everything has changed.
One day, three months into the war, I went looking for bread. Your brother Ismail had wanted to come too but your mother was sick so I asked him to stay with her. You started to cry and I took you from her arms, hoping to offer some respite. But we returned to find our entire building reduced to rubble after it was hit by an Israeli missile.
You’re too young for any of this, Yusef. At night, you ask me to sing the lullabies your mother sang to put you and Ismail to sleep. But I don’t know all the words. I make up my own funny lines and you giggle.
I’ve always been good at being the funny guy, but you need a father, not a clown. I wonder how long it might take for you to forget your mother and her lullabies. You’ve started asking about her less and less – and don’t cry for her like you used to.
You don’t deserve this, Yusef; no child does.
You should be playing hide and seek with your brother. Instead, you’re crouched here in the dark next to me; hiding from Israeli missiles, seeking protection from the next airstrike.
Every night, I place my hand over your racing heart and am grateful that it is still beating. I thank Allah that you are still alive and pray you’re still here in the morning.
You’ve become used to the sound of explosions now, some nights you even sleep through them. But your tiny body, curled up next to mine, still flinches instinctively.
Every day when we wake, we find the trail of destruction that has been left behind after the bombs. We walk among the debris, your small hand in mine, as we search for food. This is no place for a child.
Amid the death and devastation we experience daily – you are a light that flickers in the darkness, a triumph over fear.
Yusef, if I should die before you, please know how loved you were. I hope you grow up knowing your place in this world. I hope your hands get to pluck olives from the trees. I hope we both get to return to the beach and watch the sunset by the sea.
My son, I want you to know that your very existence is an act of resistance, of freedom and of hope.
It’s not something I can think about right now but I do know this: I will do everything in my power to ensure we survive this war. We will rise from these ashes and continue to exist.
I will teach you how to play football and how to swim. I will learn to cook your mother’s recipes and memorise her lullabies. I will be the best father I can be.
When this war is over, we will pick up all the broken pieces and find a way to make us whole again. That is my promise.
Your father,
Mohammed Hashem
As told to Thaslima Begum
***
Ukraine
Danylo Khomutovsky is a driver and frontline medic with Hospitallers, a volunteer group in Ukraine. His wife, Lera*, and nine-year-old son, Sasha*, fled after the Russian invasion and are now in the Netherlands. They have been separated from Danylo ever since
Dear Lera and Sasha,
I decided it was better to write to you because the connection here is bad and you’re probably worried. We have just returned from a patrol in the forest near the Donbas front. It was an incredibly tough one and I hope things get easier.
We evacuated a fallen soldier. I’m not sure why, but carrying him was extraordinarily difficult. The stretcher kept slipping through my fingers under his weight. It was a complicated feeling – incredibly sad and at the same time you’re aware of your own existence like never before. You think: “This man is dead now, and I am alive.” You can feel the life in your body and know that you want to keep it that way.
The weather in eastern Ukraine is terrible. Our vehicles got stuck in the mud and it’s risky in the forest. The Russians shot at us with artillery. My commander Borsuk didn’t even flinch – he said it was far away – but I ducked in fear.
A drone flew over and we had to keep still so it didn’t spot us. I felt like I was in Terminator 2, being chased by a soulless machine. On the way back we bought potato pies – they were the most delicious pies of my life.
I miss you both so much and I dream of our holiday together. I have booked us a house in the Carpathian mountains, somewhere with no neighbours and a landlady who will cook for us. I am working hard to make it happen.
I am incredibly impressed by you, my Sasha, and how, in the few short years since you sought safety in the Netherlands, you have learned a new language. Witnessing via video call as you watch cartoons in Dutch, a language completely unknown to me, is something incredible, a strange and wonderful feeling.
I am counting the days – it is just three weeks to go until you and your mother arrive to see me. It’s a short wait compared with the months we’ve already been apart. I am excited to see how you’ve grown and who you are becoming. I truly believe you have a gift for mathematics and, away from Ukraine and this terrible war, you will get to use it.
We’ll go trout fishing soon and eat our catch. We will climb Mount Pikui together, like we used to before the war. Soon the connection will be better and I will be able to call to read you a bedtime story.
Please tell your mother that I love her and that I am well and I yearn to be with you both. I love you both deeply, and can’t wait to hug you tightly.
Kisses and love,
Dad
As told to Liz Cookman
***
Afghanistan
Ali* is a father of two teenage girls in Afghanistan, who have been unable to go to school since the Taliban seized power in 2021
My dearest daughters,
I am writing this letter to share my thoughts and feelings with both of you with the hopes you will read it when you are older, because I don’t know if I’d be able to find a way to share these difficult thoughts and feelings with you face to face.
Every morning I wake up with a heart that is heavy with pain and guilt that I cannot seem to do anything to change this dark reality we are living in.
As I get ready for work, and see that neither you girls nor your mother are getting ready to start your day with me as we did just three years ago, a fire burns inside me, scorching my broken heart.
I sometimes wonder why did I even choose to have children, only to see my smart, beautiful girls deprived of the opportunities I wanted to shower you with. But then I remember the joyous days when you were born into our family.
The society I was born and raised in was patriarchal, where having daughters is considered a weakness, even bad luck. Every father, and many mothers, in Afghanistan pray for a son, and rarely welcome the birth of a daughter.
But your mother and I couldn’t have asked for a greater blessing in our life than the two of you. I was so proud to be a father to you girls.
I cannot even begin to describe the happiness and excitement I felt on the days of your birth.
With each of your births, I started planning your futures with great seriousness.
Your mother and I debated and argued for hours every day on which schools and universities to send you to; even though you were still in kindergarten. I cannot forget how proud I felt watching you march off to your first day of school. It felt like you were going to conquer the world and show our society that girls are not a weakness, but a source of great strength.
My dearest daughters, it is so difficult to put in words here, how traumatic it was for me when the Taliban banned schools and universities for girls.
When I first heard the news, it felt like someone had pushed me into a deep, dark well where even a speck of light was not visible. I worried for your mother, for all the women and girls of Afghanistan, but most of all, for both of you – because just a year before, you had the brightest futures ahead of you and now it must seem like there is only darkness ahead.
I want you to know how proud I am of you both when I watch how, despite everything, you are still trying to learn from your mother, from the TV and from everything around you. I cherish the smiles you give me every day, even though I don’t feel I deserve them.
Despite the darkness and ignorance around us, let us not lose our hope and seek inspiration from the brave, strong Afghan women around you, like your mother. And meanwhile, I will continue to find ways to empower both of you in any way I can.
I am confident that these dark days will eventually end, and I promise you we will not give up on your future.
Your loving father,
Ali
As told to Hikmat Noori
***
Sudan
Mohamed Abakar Khatir, 61, is a father of two sons and two daughters. They are living in Ambilia refugee camp in Adré, on Chad’s border with Darfur. Last year he nearly died after being shot in an attack by the Rapid Support Forces and Arab militias near their home in the Ardamata area of El Geneina. The family have already had to move from one refugee camp and there is little prospect of them returning to their homeland soon
Dear Ahmed and Anas,
I want to tell you that I know how difficult our life has become. Sometimes I despair that we have lost everything, but I have you two and your sisters and your mother, and that’s the most precious thing in life.
We are homeless now but I promise things will get better. We need to have faith. I hold on to the belief that one day your dreams will come true in getting an education and living a better life.
Ahmed – when I was shot by the Janjaweed militia last year and everyone thought I was dead, it was you, my dear son, who kept the faith that I was alive.
You crossed many checkpoints by yourself to reach me and refused to leave me alone. You rescued me and it is because of you and you alone that I am alive today.
I am sorry I can’t give you the things you need. I know you badly need glasses and I cannot get these for you now. Because of my injuries I still cannot work, otherwise, God knows, I would have done any job to make your life better.
I promise I will do everything I can to see that you can study in the future. When this war is over, we will go back to our beloved land, El Geneina in West Darfur, but with dignity and justice.
Amid this mess and misery we are living through in Adré, I thank God that we are all together. This is the biggest blessing. As we say: “All wounds will vanish except those in our souls.”
You are both my hope that the future will become brighter.
Your father
As told to Zeinab Mohammed Salih
***
* Names have been changed to protect their identities
