Nadia Moosa Adam: South Africa’s ambassador of humanity turning fear into hope for refugees across continents

At 9:30 pm on 14 November 2025, a plane from Kenya touched down at OR Tambo International Airport. Onboard were 153 Palestinians — children, infants, adults and elderly survivors of the recent Gaza genocide — seeking refuge in South Africa. For the passengers, every moment of the flight carried uncertainty. Would they be allowed to disembark, or sent back into the mass killings they had narrowly escaped?

The journey to Johannesburg had been long. From Gaza, the refugees crossed through Karem Abu Salem in the south, flew to Ramon Airport in Israel, then to Kenya, before boarding the flight to South Africa. Each stage involved bureaucratic hurdles and the constant fear that their fragile chance of escape could be blocked.

When the plane landed, South African authorities held it for inspection. The passengers’ passports lacked official stamps — a measure reportedly imposed by Israeli authorities to limit the movement of Gazans fleeing the genocide. For the passengers, it was more than paperwork; it was a reminder of whether they would find safety or be forced back into danger.

Nadia Moosa Adam, a humanitarian volunteer from Lenasia, raced to the airport upon hearing that Palestinians were at risk of being sent back. “I didn’t think about traffic, family obligations or the work waiting at the organisation,” she says. “I only thought: What if they are sent back? Where would they go — into rubble, into fires, into nothing?”

In the arrivals hall, volunteers waited anxiously. Conflicting reports trickled in: some suggested the plane might be turned back, while others hinted it could clear customs without incident. “When I heard they were being allowed in, I cried,” Nadia continues. “Return to what? Ruins? Homes stripped bare? Families torn apart?”

Finally, the doors opened and, one by one, the passengers emerged, carrying small plastic bags instead of suitcases, women wearing multiple layers to compensate for limited luggage, and children clinging to their parents.

Nadia recalls: “I expected exhausted, angry faces. But they were smiling. Dignity prevailed, even after hours of uncertainty. Not a single complaint.”

Among the arrivals was 16-month-old Kamal, travelling with his parents, Amir and Janine, whom Nadia remembers vividly, recounting that “he was still wearing a nappy from the previous day because they weren’t allowed extra supplies,” and her heart broke at the thought that the least they could do was give them dignity.

Lifelong bonds

Janine, a young mother from Deir Al-Balah, describes the flight as more than just a journey. “I held Kamal tightly, trying to stay strong, but inside I was trembling. Every minute felt endless. We had no idea what awaited us on the other side.”

As for Amir, he says he kept his fear to himself for the sake of his child. “A father carries a double burden: protect your child and stay calm, even when terrified inside.”

But when the family saw Nadia in the arrivals hall, Janine and Amir explained that they felt a sense of relief, and Janine says it was like a member of her own family had come to greet them.

Nadia remembers holding Kamal for the first time and adds, “It felt like holding one of my own children; in that moment, all the worry was worth it.”

For Nadia, those first moments were only the start of a longer relationship. The family later moved to Egypt to be closer to extended relatives. Even from afar, Nadia continues to support them, furnishing their home and arranging essentials.

“Solidarity isn’t a moment at an airport — it’s a lifelong commitment,” she says.

Turning grief into action

Behind the scenes, Nadia’s life is complex and demanding, shaped by both her work and her family. A mother of four, she describes her children as “the compass that always brings me back to balance,” and she says that motherhood does not hinder her work — rather, it fuels it.

“Seeing my children grow makes it impossible to ignore other children suffering,” she explains.

This sense of responsibility extends beyond her own family, with her children actively involved in her humanitarian work by collecting blankets, organising food parcels and welcoming newly arrived families.

“I want them to see solidarity as a daily practice, not just words,” she continues, emphasising her aim to teach them empathy and the importance of taking action from an early age.

Balancing a humanitarian organisation with raising four children, however, comes with its challenges. Some nights she ends in quiet tears after her children have gone to sleep, yet she says she wakes each morning with renewed purpose, certain that her work makes a difference.

“Sometimes, my children ask about children from Gaza,” she shares. “I explain the war in simple terms, focusing on safety and dignity. I want them to understand empathy, not pity. Privilege is a responsibility.”

Recalling her childhood, Nadia explains that she grew up in rural Limpopo during apartheid in South Africa, where she witnessed inequality firsthand. Her parents taught her the value of giving by taking her to schools for the blind, helping her see the world differently, and after her husband’s sudden death, she carried on their shared humanitarian vision, channeling her grief into her work.

It was this early understanding of giving and loss that shaped her approach to helping others, guiding Nadia’s work at the airport through the Fab Foundation, which she co-founded with her late husband and his niece.

Using social media to mobilise support, the organisation initially aimed to raise 100,000 rand for refugees in Lebanon, Syria, and Palestine, but donations quickly grew to 3.5 million rand, enabling Nadia and her team to assist those in need, particularly when the first 153 Palestinians arrived at OR Tambo International Airport.

Within two weeks, 15 apartments were furnished and stocked with essentials, and around 20 families were settled. Volunteers — including doctors, lawyers, teachers, and mothers — provided practical and emotional support, helping with medical care, school enrolment, and bureaucracy.

The power of empathy

Helping with shelter and supplies was just the beginning; Nadia knew that true healing also meant addressing the emotional and psychological toll, which is why the foundation provides psychosocial sessions, safe meeting spaces, and support for processing trauma.

“Many families have lost homes or loved ones,” Nadia says, adding that “trauma doesn’t disappear once you reach safety,” and she ensures that children in Lenasia also benefit from aid, stressing that “humanity is indivisible.”

Still, the intensity of the work leaves a mark. “I sometimes take stories home with me,” Nadia admits. “It’s exhausting, but even small actions make a difference.”

She recalls the moment the plane doors opened in Johannesburg: “I wasn’t just watching refugees arrive. I was witnessing solidarity transcend borders and politics. Humanity became tangible in that instant.”

For Nadia, the threads of motherhood, activism, and solidarity are inseparable, each feeding the other. Her work starts at home, extends to the community, and reaches across continents. Whether holding a frightened infant in an airport or coordinating volunteers to furnish apartments thousands of kilometres away, she demonstrates that humanity can be restored through care, empathy, and ongoing commitment.

And in that moment at OR Tambo International Airport, Nadia did more than greet refugees. She reminded the world that compassion knows no borders and that motherhood can extend beyond bloodlines, turning a routine arrival into a story of lasting hope that reaches far beyond South Africa or Gaza.

Sally Ibrahim is The New Arab's correspondent from Gaza