https://www.safehaven4donkeys.org/gaza-2024/dr-saifs-blog-from-gaza/ Link to the blog and many photos
Dr Saif’s blog from Gaza
Dr Saif, who is in charge of our mobile first aid clinic in Gaza, regularly sends us messages about the conditions the team are experiencing as they struggle to treat as many donkeys, mules and horses (and other animals) as they can.
Extracts from some of these messages are below – please note that some of the text, videos and photos may be upsetting.
To read some of the messages sent by our supporters to Dr Saif, please click here – to send your own message of support, please e-mail info@safehaven4donkeys.org
June 2025
Hi everyone, and good morning from the land where the sun rises over shattered glass and sets behind ashes-covered tents—where every breath we take is borrowed from the ruins of the past. A deep pain buried in my memories moves my fingers to write and write—like a heavy rain that finally breaks, letting everything inside me flow out without control. I write to you not merely with an update, but with a testimony carved in suffering and lit by courage. These are some images and videos of our relentless work. We miss you all, and while there is so much to say, words often tremble under the weight of what we carry. Still, I will try.
Every day in Gaza is a volume of lived agony and unyielding resilience—not fantasy, not fiction, but flesh-and-blood facts soaked in dust and heartbreak. Today, I want to speak of those whose cries are silent, whose suffering is often unseen: our beloved animals—especially the noble donkeys and equines, creatures of service now abandoned in suffering.
Let me first unveil to you the theatre of our daily battle—not the mission itself, but the war that begins before the mission starts. At 4 a.m., while the world elsewhere is still dreaming, we begin our hunt for water. No taps. No tanks. Just blistered feet, jerrycans, and a trail of sweat. We walk 1, 2, sometimes 5 kilometres just to fill a few litres of mercy—donated by kind souls across oceans. We haul these drops of life across burning sands to our tents—tents that neither shield us from Gaza’s blistering heat nor the piercing cold of night. Mere fabric, trembling beneath the sky, exposed to shrapnel, mosquitoes, and madness.
By 6 a.m., we begin our second mission: the battle for fire. We search for wood, bricks, scraps of war—anything to boil water or cook anything (if found). Then, without pause, begins the third act: our mission. At 8 a.m., fatigued but fierce, we make our way to the mobile animal clinic, answering desperate calls from animal owners whose companions lie dying of hunger and injury. We work until the afternoon sun collapses behind ruins. And then the fourth battle begins: the search for food. A slice of bread becomes a treasure. A cup of rice, a miracle. Meat, fruit, chocolate—these are dreams we can only eat in sleep. Yes, only in sleep or maybe one day in heaven!
When night comes, we collapse. Yes, we do!! Not into sleep—but into breathless silence. We sprawl across the bare ground, too exhausted to dream, our souls whispering only this: “Live one more day.” And yet, we go on.
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