I was born here, on this hilltop, in the place my father was born and my children after me. I have fourteen children with my two wives, and many animals. My grandfather came to this spot after nine generations in this region, his ancestor having fled after a tribal dispute in Saudi Arabia. The land is part of me, and all the hills around us are inhabited by my brothers and their families, and some of my older children and their families.

I have lived and worked in the State of Israel all my life. I am Arab, Bedouin and Muslim. I am also Israeli, I speak Hebrew and I am part of Israeli society. I used to work building the fence between Israel and Gaza, back when everything was different. On three occasions Hamas members shot at me from the other side of the border, and I called the army who came to deal with it every time.

In April, 2024, my beautiful daughter Amina, just seven years old at the time, was sleeping in a room with her two older brothers. We suddenly woke up to blood-curdling screams: Amina shouting, crying, bleeding, missing parts of her skull. It was a terrible night. We had been told Iran had launched missiles and the entire country waited in suspense for nine hours for a national catastrophe, and the only victim was my Amina. We had no bomb shelter, no protection, and no government attention.

It’s been months, and Amina remains in intensive care with a serious head injury, hovering between the hospital and rehab, waiting for some stability or pieces of good news. We don’t know what her recovery will look like or how long it will take: everything is in God’s hands. All this time my first wife, Amina’s devoted mother, hasn’t left her side. We feel the absence at home every single day. Hadra, my second wife, has been holding the fort, suddenly the sole carer of 13 children. Everything you see around you – our delightful home, the courtyard, the plants, the kitchen, these paintings – she created and built herself. But life is hard, our family is ripped in two. We are praying daily for Amina, our other children also suffer from trauma, and on top of that we have financial struggles - I have been out of work since the war started.

Since the incident, we’ve seen an outpouring of public support, but we feel completely abandoned by the government, who betrayed us at every turn. Volunteers visit us occasionally to play with the children, donors built us a shelter – in fact, during the second Iranian attack in September this year, a piece of shrapnel the size of my fist directly hit our new shelter but thankfully no damage was done, the shelter served its purpose.

The hospital team says our home isn’t suitable for Amina to come back to, we need proper equipment, more space, around-the-clock care. The state won’t let us build anything permanent here, and keep trying to incentivize us to move. We live under constant threat of demolition. Even the roads are terrible, as literally anything seen as enduring is uprooted and destroyed. It happened to my neighbors’ houses. Each time, they just wait out the army and rebuild slightly worse structures in the exact same spot. Where else would we go? We are the land and the land is us.

I try not to make trouble – there’s enough space here for all of us. I have many good friends, Jewish and Bedouin alike, from Arad, the nearest city. Our community decided not to elect a sheikh: the Bedouins in this area decided unanimously that the Jewish mayor of Arad could represent us. Unlike the politicians in government and the system that continuously lets us down, Yair Maayan from Arad does a brilliant job and listens to our needs. We often meet in cafes with Jewish friends and neighbours, just as we do with our fellow Bedouins. Just a month ago we participated in the first official Israeli camel race sponsored entirely by a Jewish lover of the sport and which was the best race we’ve ever been to.

If I had to give one message from my story, I would say life is better when we work together. Please pray for Amina, and thank you to the people who continue to support us.