By Amal Rafiq
I grew up believing that childhood was a time of innocence, laughter, play, and the warmth of family love. But this was never the case for the children of Gaza.
Childhood in Gaza has been stolen in countless unimaginable ways. They wait in long lines to bring a small meal to their families or to fill plastic jugs with water. They collect wood and paper from the streets to feed fires so that they can cook dinner. Their schoolbags, once filled with books and pencils, now carry cans or small bags of rice from aid centers. They live in constant fear, ready to face death at any moment. Many have lost their homes and now live in flimsy tents that cannot protect them from the heat of summer or the cold of winter. Thousands have lost their families, many watching their parents die before their eyes. A huge number of children became the only survivors of their entire families, so many that a new term had to be coined to describe them: WCNSF — “Wounded Child, No Surviving Family.” More than 64,000 children have been killed or wounded — some buried under the rubble, others burned, and many suffering from severe injuries made worse by Gaza’s collapsing medical system. Over 58,000 children have lost one or both parents. Orphans, forced to face the harsh reality alone.
My heart breaks whenever I remember my cousin’s story. Ahmed was only eight years old — a kind, innocent child who lived peacefully with his family. He had a twin brother, Mohammed, and we could hardly tell them apart. When the war began, Ahmed lost his mother, his twin, and his older brother. But his tragedy didn’t end there. One day, while he was walking home with his father and uncle, a drone dropped a bomb on them. Ahmed was the only survivor of that massacre. He saw his father and uncle die right before his eyes. He was badly injured and had to undergo several surgeries. After he recovered, we tried our best to cheer him up and avoided mentioning what had happened.
The children of Gaza have also been deprived of their most basic need — food. During Israel’s monthslong enforced starvation of Gaza, it was the children who suffered the most. Countless cases of malnutrition were reported; already frail bodies became skeletal. Every day, the Ministry of Health announced the deaths of dozens of children due to hunger and lack of medical care.
The few children who were lucky enough to survive all of this now suffer from deep psychological trauma. They fear playing, and the sound of airstrikes still echo in their minds. Even the squeak of a door can make them panic. My twelve-year-old brother was terrified of the quadcopter — a small drone with a camera that sometimes shoots and drops bombs. When the night came, he would rush to close all the windows. Whenever we heard its sound, he quickly hid under the blanket. I used to tell him, “Don’t worry, it’s just taking pictures”, but in reality, I was scared too. Sometimes, that same drone played the recorded screams of children and women to terrify people, and we heard countless stories of it targeting anyone it saw.
Even after the ceasefire, the suffering continues. Recently, two children were playing next to a suspicious object — a remnant of war — when it exploded. They have been left with burns and new wounds to carry. Not long after that, a baby, only a few months old, died with his family when a building collapsed in the Al-Sabra neighborhood.
Gaza is no longer a place for children — destruction and danger lurk around every corner — and yet they still love it. I broke down in tears when I heard children from my neighborhood singing a song that we used to sing before:
The Land of glory and The land of pride
My precious, beautiful homeland — Gaza.
A ray of hope came into my heart when I visited my 13-year-old cousin after the ceasefire. She had lost both of her parents and her two brothers. She told me that she had just registered at a new school in the camp where she now lives with her uncle’s family. When I met her, she showed me the small schoolbag she had received — filled with colorful pencils and notebooks. Her enthusiasm was clear when she went to wash the clothes she planned to wear on her first day of school. Her smile didn’t leave her face. After all she has witnessed — all the loss and destruction — she still wants to learn. She still dreams about the future.
Those are the children of Gaza. I truly hope that they overcome all of the trauma they experienced in this genocide, and that they are given the opportunity to build a more hopeful future, for themselves and for all of us.
Note: Some names in this article have been changed to protect the privacy of the protagonists.
Amal Rafiq is a writer and a student of English language and literature who believes in the power of words. She has taken it upon herself to record her people’s stories—to be both the chronicler and the guardian of their memory. Through her writing, she asks readers to pray for the people of Gaza and to never, ever forget what they have endured.
