When seven-year-old Khalil from the Philippines sat before a camera, his head freshly shaved and an IV drip taped to his arm, he was told that the video being filmed would help save his life. "I am seven years old and I have cancer," he recited quietly, following a script handed to him in English. The crew, determined to evoke tears, placed chopped onions nearby and dabbed menthol under his eyes when he struggled to cry on cue. His family, instructed to pretend it was his birthday, played along in hopes that the campaign would raise money for better treatment.
But according to a BBC World Service investigation, the entire scene was a carefully constructed performance—one that exploited Khalil’s real illness for profit. The campaign in his name ultimately raised $27,000, yet his mother, Aljin, received only a $700 filming fee and none of the promised financial support. One year later, Khalil died, never benefiting from the outpouring of donations made in his name.
Khalil’s story is just one among many. The BBC’s investigation uncovered a sprawling global network of online fundraising scams targeting desperately ill children and their families. At least 15 families were identified who saw little to none of the money raised for their children’s supposed medical care. In nine cases tied to a single network, families received nothing from a staggering $4 million in donations. Most were unaware that their children’s images and stories were being used in high-profile, emotionally charged online campaigns.
The investigation began in October 2023, when a YouTube advert featuring a sobbing girl named Alexandra from Ghana caught the BBC team’s attention. In the video, Alexandra pleaded, "I don’t want to die. My treatments cost a lot." Her campaign, slickly produced and widely promoted, appeared to have raised nearly $700,000. But as the BBC soon discovered, Alexandra’s family had not seen a cent.
Digging deeper, the BBC found a pattern among these campaigns: all were emotionally manipulative, professionally shot, and followed a similar script. The largest campaigns operated under the name Chance Letikva (translated as "Chance for Hope"), an organization registered in both Israel and the US. Using a mix of geolocation, social media sleuthing, and facial recognition software, BBC reporters tracked down families from Colombia to the Philippines and Ukraine. In each case, the families told a familiar story of exploitation and broken promises.
One whistleblower from within the network described the disturbing selection process for featured children. "They were always looking for beautiful children with white skin. The child had to be three to nine years old. They had to know how to speak well. They had to be without hair," the whistleblower told the BBC. Photographs of potential candidates were sent to Erez Hadari, an Israeli man now living in Canada, whom the BBC identified as a key figure behind the scam. Hadari, according to multiple families and documents, orchestrated many of the campaigns and was linked to several organizations, including Chance Letikva, Walls of Hope, Saint Raphael, Little Angels, and Saint Teresa.
In the Philippines, Khalil’s mother Aljin described how she was first approached by a local businessman who requested a video of her son—essentially an audition. Later, a man introducing himself as "Erez" arrived from Canada, paid a filming fee, and promised monthly payments if the campaign was successful. The shoot lasted 12 hours, with repeated takes and emotional manipulation. Months later, after hearing nothing, Aljin was told the campaign "wasn’t successful." Yet the BBC found the campaign still online, having raised tens of thousands of dollars. "If I had known the money we had raised, I can’t help but think that maybe Khalil would still be here," Aljin said. "I don’t understand how they could do this to us."
In Colombia, Sergio Care recounted a similar experience after his eight-year-old daughter Ana was diagnosed with a brain tumor. Approached by a woman named Isabel and a man matching Hadari’s description, Sergio was promised financial help in exchange for a video. The demands continued long after filming: Isabel repeatedly requested more photos of Ana in the hospital, even messaging the child directly when Sergio stopped responding. When Ana tried to learn what happened to the money, Isabel claimed the foundation "disappeared" and the video was never uploaded. In reality, the campaign had raised nearly $250,000 by April 2024.
Ukraine saw the same tactics. Five-year-old Viktoriia, who has brain cancer, was filmed at the Angelholm Clinic in Chernivtsi. Her mother, Olena, was unaware that a campaign in her daughter’s name had been launched, raising over €280,000. The contract she was asked to sign promised a $1,500 filming fee and an $8,000 payout if the fundraising goal was met—though the goal amount was left blank. The BBC found that Tetiana Khaliavka, who organized the shoot, was an employee of the clinic’s advertising department. The clinic later stated it never approved the filming and terminated Khaliavka’s employment.
When confronted, those involved in recruiting families denied responsibility. Rhoie Yncierto, the local businessman who recruited Khalil, denied instructing families to shave their children’s heads and claimed he received no payment for his involvement. He expressed confusion and regret when told the families had not received any donations. Isabel Hernandez, who worked on Ana’s campaign, apologized to the families, saying, "If I’d known what was going on, I would not have been able to do something like this."
The BBC’s investigation revealed that the scam network operated much like a conveyor belt, with multiple organizations producing similar campaigns. A recruiter described being asked to visit oncology clinics to find suitable children, always sending photos to Hadari for approval. The organizations would then cycle through names—Chance Letikva, Walls of Hope, Saint Raphael, and others—all linked to Hadari.
When families questioned where the money had gone, they were told that advertising costs had consumed the donations. Charity experts, however, told the BBC that advertising should not exceed 20% of funds raised. In Khalil’s case, Hadari told Aljin over the phone, "There is cost of advertising. So the company lost money," but offered no evidence to support the claim.
Campaigns for children who have since died, like Khalil and a Mexican boy named Hector, remain online and continue to accept donations. The BBC contacted Hadari and the organizations involved for comment but received no response. Authorities in Israel stated that if evidence emerges of illegal activity, registration for such organizations could be denied and the founders barred from the sector. The UK Charity Commission advised donors to verify that charities are registered and to consult fundraising regulators if in doubt.
For families like Aljin’s, the betrayal runs deep. "When your child is… hanging on the edge of life, and someone’s out there, making money off that. Well, it’s filthy. It’s blood money," said Olena, Viktoriia’s mother. The BBC’s findings shine a harsh light on the dark underbelly of online charity fundraising, urging vigilance from donors and demanding accountability from those who exploit the world’s most vulnerable.
