I first met Fadi Skaik fifteen years ago. We haven’t ever actually met in person, because he lives in Gaza and I live in Massachusetts. I am Jewish and he is Palestinian, but once our paths crossed through the internet we have been connected ever since.

I was a graduate student at the MIT Media Lab Center for Future Civic Media, charged with finding a project to combine journalism with technology and information activism. He was an English teacher and accredited translator, with a penchant for using the caps lock key and referencing the Smurfs. We became fast friends.

In January 2009, rocket fire from Gaza triggered an Israeli response called Operation Cast Lead. The one-month bombardment resulted in the deaths of over 1,400 Palestinians and 13 Israelis (Congressional Report), as well as hundreds of thousands of homes destroyed and civilians displaced. The suffering of Israelis and Palestinians was often reported as equal in US media; a gross distortion of the reality of the conflict.

I worked on the VirtualGaza project to gather stories, photos and videos directly from people on the ground. A web and email platform enabled civilians to tell their own stories without the intermediary of international journalists based outside of the direct zone of fire. I was the webmaster and programmer, and built tools to overlay damage reports from satellite photography with personal testimonies of the people who lived under the bombs and rockets. Students from the Harvard Alliance for Justice in the Middle East connected with local journalists and English speakers.

Fadi was a prolific writer, sending me articles with titles like “How do We Cope?,” “Born In The Mediterranean” and “Still Alive.” He wrote poetry about trying to count the bombs as they fell around his apartment building, which I read nestled comfortably in my Somerville triple-decker. We are about the same age with access to the same internet, but vastly different abilities to travel the world or be safe in our own homes.

After that war ended, Fadi was accepted to represent Palestine at an international youth conference in Prague. He was excited to go and escape the feeling of being imprisoned in a small strip of land, kept apart from the wider world. But he was unable to secure an exit permit from Israel, and missed the opportunity. He continued to send me translations he had done, but I didn’t have a platform to publish them. He eventually was locked out of his Facebook account and we fell out of touch.

I applied for a permit to visit Gaza in the summer of 2009, but was also denied entry. As an American this felt very foreign to me, since we think our passports allow us access almost anywhere. Instead of visiting Gaza, I stayed in Ramallah for a month and learned more about Palestine as a temporary resident rather than a tourist. Passing through the Qalandia checkpoint daily to get to my job in Jerusalem, the experience of being subject to the same occupation restrictions affected me deeply and honestly changed the course of my career. I returned to the Media Lab to finish my thesis by building tools to give others the same experience I had, and ways to act using their collective economic power. After graduating, I moved to California to continue working on technology for online organizing, political activism and international solidarity.

In the years that I traveled around the world, Fadi remained stuck. I received an email from him in 2018 asking for help for his father, who had a shoe shop in Gaza City and struggled to pay their last year’s rent. I felt a sense of obligation since he had helped me so much with my graduate work, and sent him enough via MoneyGram to help repay the debt. I was wary of being on the hook for open-ended support, but it was also a small enough sum that I could pay for it out of my Bay Area tech salary without feeling much pain.

In 2020, the world stopped for COVID-19 and the economy in Gaza did too. Fadi emailed me in December saying that his father’s shoe shop was in danger again, and asking for help. He attached images of the official looking documents in Arabic calling in debt owed to the shop’s wholesalers. I ignored the email, concerned again about a long-term obligation since my salary had been curtailed by my own pandemic layoff and sudden separation from our community in California.

Another round of bombings and rocket fire occurred in May 2021, and the building next to Fadi’s apartment was targeted by Israel. The collapse killed 42 neighbors and destroyed the local Associated Press and Al Jazeera offices (Human Rights Watch). He sent photos of his children, aged 6 and 9, sleeping in the hallway under a blue and yellow Minions blanket. I wondered if they felt safe under their big watchful eyes. They moved to his father’s flat in a different neighborhood, and asked for help to rebuild a life for himself and his children. How could I say no?

We started a GoFundMe campaign with the goal of $3000 and I posted it on my Facebook wall. My network of friends and family came through, and with donations ranging from $10 to $1000 I was able to send Fadi the full amount he needed within a few weeks. He was overjoyed, and sent effusive messages of thanks.

In October 2023, the worst episode of violence in decades broke out from the Gaza Strip, shattering the illusion of calm that the occupation had been unable to produce. Hamas attacked communities near the border, killed hundreds at a music festival, and fired thousands of rockets that reached the bustling cities of Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. 

As an American Jew, I felt immediately sympathetic with the victims. I texted an Israeli friend I had met at Burning Man; he performed sound therapy with a metal gong and spoke of the possibility of a shared enlightenment. While I know he personally wishes for peace, even he was calling for an invasion of Gaza, although he acknowledged it could hurt innocents. Was I naive in believing that I could be friends with someone from there? Would they really kill me if they had the chance? How can we move beyond the cycle of retribution toward a better world?

In November, I traveled to Washington DC to march around the White House and call for a ceasefire. While the pain of the attack was still raw, it felt important to express solidarity with the thousands of Palestinian activists who also have deep connection to the land and a similar concern for their people. On the drive back to Boston, I discussed my feelings with fellow activists in the car, and impressed on them the historical importance of the term “genocide” and how it didn’t quite feel appropriate to me given the scale of the violence so far on both sides. This was also subject to change.

In February 2024, Fadi sent me another email asking for help. He and his family had left their home and were sheltered in a tent in Rafah. They had to get their children to safety and the hope of a future without violence, and would need to raise a lot of money to pay the exorbitant fees for passage to Egypt. They hoped eventually to resettle elsewhere, and had applied for refugee status in Spain. Exit costs were currently $5,000 per adult and $2,500 per child, even though until recently they were under $500 each (The Guardian). Could I help them with another fundraising campaign?

The idea seemed daunting, how would we raise so much money quickly enough to make a difference? I felt conflicted, as we actually had this much sitting in our checking account waiting for a kitchen renovation. Was my house worth more than a friend’s and his family? I tried to remind myself that it wasn’t my burden to bear alone, and that I should trust in our community networks and the kindness of strangers to share the load.

Fadi had also contacted a friend who lives in Canada, and we decided together to set up a GoFundMe page connected to my American bank account. I immediately got a message from their staff stating that it was under review “due to recent developments within the region.” They required documentation of the legal names of all recipients and “a detailed plan on how the funds will be used to ensure a secure departure out of Gaza.” Fadi sent me his family’s names, birthdates, ID numbers, and who he planned to stay with in Egypt. I confirmed my bank account information and recorded a short video showing my face and drivers license to prove that I’m not a robot. Having actually worked on building robots, this felt slightly ironic.

With my humanity confirmed, I added photos and a description to the page. I set the goal initially at $10,000, which felt impossibly high but also insufficient to meet their needs. I shared again on Facebook, and got a fast response from my community of activists. A dozen donations came in from close friends, and a few from people who I did not know. Within a week, we had $5,000 and seemed on track to make the initial goal. I posted a few more times on Twitter and Bluesky, and got another round of new donors. It felt like this might be possible.

But even with $10,000 how do you decide who escapes a war zone and who has to stay? I increased the goal to $15,000 to cover both parents and their children, and sent out a direct email appeal to about fifty close friends. My birthday was coming up; instead of buying me a drink, would they consider donating to this cause? Some were people I hadn’t spoken to in years, but I knew to be politically minded and generous. Others were close but not outspoken on this issue, and I worried that it might be seen as offensive or an overreach of our relationship.

The response I received was overwhelmingly generous, and we soon had another $5,000 and promises of more to come. People told me that this gave them an outlet, something to do in the face of despair and pain. Friends shared with their family networks and wrote their own appeals. The web of trust was growing, and my feeling of futility from earlier in the year was slowly replaced with a realization that this just might work.

We increased the goal to $25,000, enough to pay for Fadi’s parents passage as well. They were staying in the same tent in Rafah, and had previously requested a visa due to age and health conditions but had been unable to pay the fee. If we could raise enough to pay for all of them, their family could stay together and take care of each other in their new lives. It was a sum that seemed impossible to raise from the start, but now felt just within reach.

As we got closer to the goal, I realized that actually transferring the funds directly to Fadi would be a difficult barrier. We had previously sent money via Western Union, but due to a currency crisis in Egypt that route was no longer working. I called a journalist friend in Istanbul who was also working to evacuate their local colleagues, and they said that they were forced to move cash in person because of the shortage of dollars. I imagined boarding a flight with a fanny pack full of bills, and considered how I would navigate the streets of Cairo with my heart in my throat, feeling like a smuggler.

We searched again for another option, and eventually were put in touch with an intermediary through a foundation that Fadi had worked with. None of us knew him personally, but they said he had helped with a similar transaction in the past. We were introduced via WhatsApp, and he seemed nice and spoke of his family in Palestine. Still, how do you trust a stranger with a life-changing amount of money? How much can you trust anyone? He sent me his account information, and I confirmed with Fadi that we would send the money.

With the funds in my account, I assumed it should be a relatively simple matter of entering the instructions to send them off. I had recently purchased a house, and I knew my way around the online banking transaction portal. But I looked, and couldn’t find a way to enter the SWIFT code for international wires. I called the bank, and they informed me that I could not send money outside of the United States online or over the phone, only in person. I was currently in the woods of New Hampshire, and their closest physical presence was in Boston at a bank “cafe experience.” I checked there, and they couldn’t process the transaction either, they operated more like a coffee shop than a branch with tellers. The online system they recommended also would not work, because a transaction with them would be processed in Egyptian pounds, not the US dollars that the travel agency required.

I became frustrated that I was the bottleneck. Our house had lost power and internet in a spring snowstorm, but I drove my car to the nearest library and sat outside on my phone checking for cheap flights. I had enough airline points to go down to New York in a day with enough time to get a bagel and lox, go to the bank, grab a slice of pizza, and make it back in time for dinner. I booked it, focused on resolving the issue as soon as possible.

The next morning I drove to the airport in the dark, got a morning flight to Newark, took the train to Penn Station, and walked into a bank branch with what seemed like a straightforward request. Then my phone alert went off; an earthquake had occurred in New York City. It was a portent of things to come. After discussing my issue with a teller in person, she informed me that my account was actually ineligible to send wire transfers. I still don’t understand this restriction, but they were unable to help me or even allow me to set up a new account. Wary of being seen as a nuisance, I asked for the funds in a cashier’s check to move it myself to a local bank. With the warning that this check was as good as cash, I carefully carried my backpack through the subway, around Central Park to look at the blooming trees and pay tribute to John Lennon in Strawberry Fields, and then back to the airport to head home.

I went to my local bank branch the next day, where they were much more able to assist. With the cashier’s check in hand, the funds were moved to my account in one business day, and they were able to send them off to Egypt immediately. The receiving bank was closed for the Eid holiday, but after a few more days re-opened and our new local friend was able to retrieve the money. He sent our WhatsApp group a photo, and I was surprised at how little volume that amount of money took up. Just two short stacks of hundred dollar bills, but enough to save the lives of my friend and his family.

Fadi’s cousin met the intermediary in Cairo, and took the money to the travel agency for registration. His parents were able to transit the Rafah crossing a few days later. Having been previously registered, their spot in line was secured once the fee was paid. It took them nine hours from getting to the checkpoint to get to the other side. He sent me a video of his father Nabil embracing his aunt, who he had not seen since 2015. I don’t speak Arabic, but I think I know what they said to each other.

For weeks, Fadi waited in Rafah for his number to clear the border. Every day the Egyptian travel agency posts a set of names and the dates they registered. Every night he and his children sleep under the sound of drones. Sometimes bombs fall close by. They haven’t been able to shower since October 7th. The military hasn’t invaded their tent city yet, but has threatened to. The United Nations has warned of a “slaughter of civilians” if that happens. (Reuters) I hope they are able to leave before then.

They paid the travel agency “coordination fee” on April 17th, and on May 6th the list posted for people to leave had the same registration date. Their names were not present, but they hoped that they would be allowed to leave the next day. Word on the street spread that Hamas had accepted a ceasefire deal. He sent a video of people celebrating, young men hoisting each other on their shoulders and cheering. The joy did not last.

Israel rejected the deal. Heavy bombings kept them up all night. He described it as “massive, unprecedented airstrikes.” The border is closed indefinitely, and they cannot leave.. In our WhatsApp group we sent encouraging words and hopeful stickers, but privately are distraught. I cannot imagine the disappointment of being so close to getting to safety, but still being trapped in the cycle of violence.

He posted on Facebook that the fundraiser had been successful, and thanked me profusely for the help. I was flattered, but the side effect of a public acknowledgement was more private requests for assistance. Now whenever I open my app, I see pleas from other Palestinians desperate to leave Gaza. Every Instagram story I post, I get a pleading comment or direct message. My phone in my pocket is full of digital despair and nightly horror.

So for Askar, and Ibrahim, and Mahmoud, and Shrereen, and Khaleel, and Marwan, and Hashem, and Nedaa, and Rula: I wish I could help you all. I don’t know what else I would do if I were in your position. My grandmother Hedi did the same thing when she was 16 years old, desperate to flee Vienna after Kristallnacht. She got ahold of a telephone directory for London, and wrote letters to every Jewish-sounding name in the book. Eventually one responded, was willing to sponsor a visa for her, provide a job, and save her life. I can’t do that for everyone, and I don’t know how to help other than by sharing my story, and amplifying yours.

On a short trip to Montreal last month, I met my Canadian co-fundraiser. We had an excellent dinner at a Lebanese restaurant, and shared our family stories and found similar narratives of displacement, of privilege and continued hope in humanity. She shared that many other fundraisers were not going well, and asked what I had done differently on this one. In truth, I don’t know. We built a web of trust, aided by some very generous friends and family. It provided an avenue for action for people of conscience to help across the world.

There is a Jewish saying from the Talmud, “whoever saves a single life is counted as if they had saved an entire world.” And in the Arabic saying, “In’sh Allah”, if God wills it. While I don’t personally believe in a deity, I do believe in trusting others and have a faith in the good of humanity. With the power of the internet to connect, and international solidarity to unite us, we were able to make a difference in the life of a friend I haven’t even met yet. Inshallah is us.