Fundraising for Asala Matarya in Gaza
I shared this at the launch of the Tomorrow Archives on Saturday, May 4. Wanted to share this here so people can hear from Asala's own words what the reality of Rafah on the ground.
The Rafah invasion has begun and 26 y/o Asala, her husband and family are desperate to get out before it’s too late. Can you donate the $$$ you’d spend on a night out for dinner or drinks to this campaign today? The goal is to hit $12,500 as soon as possible, but the overall goal of $50,000 would account for Asala’s adult family members to also evacuate. Donate here, find sample language to amplify Asala’s campaign here, and reach out to me at soniadesairayka@gmail.com if you have any questions. Please share widely as soon as possible. This is a matter of life or death.
I shared this piece below of Asala’s reflections, in her own words, at the launch of the Tomorrow Archives on Saturday, May 4. I met Asala through a mutual friend Anam Raheem who worked at Gaza Sky Geeks for several years, and where Asala took coding classes. Gaza Sky Geeks was an international tech hub with backing from Google — their building has since been bombed to rubble. You can read more about the initiative to support these programmers at this link as well as see other active campaigns. I hope this allows a lens into who we’re fundraising for and what is at stake.
I’d like to spend a little time introducing you to my pen pal in Gaza, Asala Matarya. She is 26 years old, just a year younger than me. She’s married to a loving man, Mahmoud, who travels 4 kilometers every day to gather water for them. They have a daughter Hayat, which means life in Arabic. They call her Toota, and Toota’s best friend is a long haired ashy grey cat named Mishu who sleeps between her and Asala every night. Asala refers to Mishu as her first son, and Hayat her first daughter.
We have so much in common — we love to bake and host our loved ones for dinner parties, we both love the beach, both feel creative and focused at night, both dreamt of motherhood. Our current realities, however, couldn’t be any more different. Our daily conversations remind me that every horrific thing we have witnessed via social media is infinitely worse on the ground. Her wifi goes out frequently, and when she’s back online she always starts her message with — “how are you? We’re alive.”
I want to share a message she sent me in response to questions regarding what she wanted me to share at this event.
“Hi Sonia,
Unfortunately we have been displaced again, and having difficulty connecting to the internet. I wish I could talk to you constantly but the network here is destroyed, and I have to walk several km for the internet.
It is enough for me that you can listen to me. I cannot grumble and complain to those around me because we are under the same pressure together. I feel with you that I am emptying some of what is inside me.
I have lived like anyone else who has lived in an occupied city since childhood - every year or two, there is a war. At any time I might hear the news of the loss of loved ones, or the demolitions of any place where I had some memories.
Something I’ve missed since the war started is sleeping in my bed, my favorite food, electricity, and staying up late working on my laptop, family gatherings, our simple occasions, our dreams that my husband and I created for our little girl. I miss my child’s room and toys. I miss everything.
We miss our life, yes. We miss our life. It makes us both happy and sad to remember how life used to be. I hope that a time will come when we remember what is happening now as if it were in the past.
My favorite thing about myself is that I am a mother to Hayat, but at the same time, it’s very painful to be a mother who cannot provide safety, not even milk or diapers, no food or candies for my baby.
When I hear the bombing, I hide myself in her because she’s all I have now. I don’t have anything. Just my baby. And thank god for this.
Now, I don’t want to lose her – I don’t want her to be in this pain. I want her to have a future. I feel like I’m restricted. I must protect her, but I can’t even protect myself. I’m supposed to give her everything she needs, but there is nothing.
My husband and I have often dreamed of being perfect parents since I got pregnant. I always dreamed of being a mother to a little girl, and Mahmoud wanted to be the father to a little girl. I look at her and cry – I dreamed of giving her the best life. I called her Hayat to love her life.
Being Palestinian is not a simple matter. To get used to sadness, to lows, to pain, to give up your most basic rights to obtain electricity and water. Not to enjoy peace and stability throughout your life. Being Palestinian is like being a bird in a cage. Yes, exactly like being a bird in a cage.
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Asala’s told me she feels shame that she’s asking me for help, and I feel shame knowing that it’s taken this long to help her, that my communities are trying their best to fundraise. It should anger all of us, I think, that at the core of all of this is money and war profiteering — as artists in this room, our work is co-opted, our labor is exploited, our expendable income is so limited because our tax dollars go directly to the genocide of Palestinian 75 years and counting. Just kilometers from the worst humanitarian crisis this generation has seen, an Egyptian company is currently making millions off the desperation of families seeking safety fleeing Gaza, their last resort.
And yet, we have no right to lose hope. We have every right to feel angry, but we have no right to lose hope. Through this violence, I’ve seen the best of us come together and reaffirm our commitments to mutual aid, looking directly at each other with empty hands and asking how to put them to work. I’ve seen the best of us adapt our skills in truly revolutionary ways. The best of us readjust our finances to support those who need it. I’m very grateful to be rooted in a community who does so, and grateful for those artists who put their attention, labor, and money where their mouth is.
Reflecting together on the beauty of Gaza, its beaches, all the birthday parties and celebrations, Asala said to me recently that the only beautiful thing the war gave her was our friendship, and that she hopes there’s a world where we’ll meet, and hug, and our loved ones will celebrate together. I feel the same, and I believe that reality will come.
The Rafah invasion has begun and 26 y/o Asala, her husband and family are desperate to get out before it’s too late. Can you donate the $$$ you’d spend on a night out for dinner or drinks to this campaign today? The goal is to hit $12,500 as soon as possible — $5000 each for Asala and Mahmoud, $2500 for Hayat — but the overall goal of $50,000 would account for Asala’s adult family members to also evacuate.
Find sample language to amplify Asala’s campaign here,
and reach out to me at soniadesairayka@gmail.com if you have any questions.
Please share widely as soon as possible.