Written by Shahd Ahmad Alnaami, from 16th October Group
While children around the world sleep safely in their beds, the children of Gaza are forced to sleep on the streets. They are torn from their warm homes and left to wander the streets, fleeing from everywhere yet heading nowhere.
For these children, war is not just a memory but an ongoing reality. The normal routines of childhood — going to school, playing outside, socializing with friends — are frequently interrupted by airstrikes, bombings, and military incursions. This constant violence severely disrupts their education, healthcare, and mental well-being.
Heroes do not cry’ — but children in Gaza cannot help but shed tears.
Mahmoud’s story
Among these children is Mahmoud, a 5-year-old boy. He lives next to my grandmother’s house with his family; he has two little brothers younger than him. Every time I saw Mahmoud, I found him laughing, his smile radiant and full of life.
Two months ago, I received the news of Mahmoud and his family’s injuries. While they were sleeping, a drone exploded near them and its shrapnel flew onto them. I asked Mahmoud to tell me what happened to him, and here is how he described it:
“When I opened my eyes, I was bleeding. The neighbors rushed to help, and I asked one of them, ‘Uncle, am I going to die?’ ‘No, Habibi,’ he replied. ‘You will live.’ But I remembered my mom telling me that when little kids die, they feel no pain and wake up in a beautiful place. I wasn’t dead, I was in pain, and I heard the neighbors planning to take me and my family quickly to the hospital. That was not a beautiful place. I cried a lot when I saw my little brothers bleeding, too. I was not supposed to cry because my mom used to tell me that I am the hero for my brothers, and heroes do not cry.”
Mahmoud’s aunt told me that he and his brothers were not allowed to eat or drink anything for seven days; they could only receive IV fluids. They screamed day and night for just a cup of water, but their injuries were in their tummies, and no one could do anything for them.
Now, after two months of those awful days, Mahmoud and his family are getting better day by day. Mahmoud shared his story with a smile, but I don’t know if that smile came from the pain he had gone through or from his happiness as he began to heal. I don’t know how long it will take Mahmoud to pass through this horrific experience, although I wish him a brighter future full of peace.
Three siblings’ story
I know three little princesses — Sarah, Malak, and Nour — who lost their father in the fourth month of the war. The pain in their eyes is indescribable, yet they carry on, their hearts heavy with questions they are too young to ask. I overheard Nour, just 4 years old, as she played with her friend. In her small voice, filled with innocence, she said, “Baba went to Jannah. He is happy now, and I want to meet him soon. I miss him.”
Her words, so simple yet so profound, reveal a depth of understanding no child should have to possess. It’s a heartbreaking reminder of the resilience of children, who somehow find a way to keep dreaming, even in the darkest times. They cling to the hope of reunion, of a day when they might see their loved ones again, free from the fear and grief that has become their daily reality.
Rayhana’s story
“We will rebuild our home again,” Rayhana told me. She is a 7-year-old girl from North Gaza who had to evacuate with her mother and siblings to the south, leaving her father behind. One day, her father called to tell them that their home had been bombed, but he promised them that he would rebuild it.
I asked myself what “home” means to this little girl — a place where she should have felt safe, where she should have been able to create and cherish her childhood memories. It’s where she should fall asleep listening to bedtime stories, not the sounds of bombs. Rayhana’s home was more than just walls and a roof; it was a space filled with her favorite toys, her drawings on the walls, and the warmth of her family’s love.
They took her home away; it was her life, and now everything is gone. Her room, her bed, the familiar smell of her mother’s cooking — all of it reduced to rubble. They made her homeless; they made her feel alone in a world too vast and cruel for someone so young. Yet, even amidst this devastation, Rayhana clings to the promise her father made, holding onto the hope that one day, their home will stand again. Even though the place she once called home is now gone, Rayhana believes in the strength of her family to create a new one, where they can laugh, dream, and live without fear.
Childhood lost
Nowadays, the children’s world revolves around one thing — finding wood to light a fire. They have become experts, their small hands skillfully gathering twigs and branches as if it were a habit they have grown accustomed to. Their eyes, once bright with the innocence of childhood, are now sharp and alert, scanning for any sign of water or a morsel of food.
The health situation is getting worse rapidly, especially for children who are now suffering from various diseases. Skin conditions are widespread due to poor hygiene and lack of clean water, leading to painful rashes and open sores. The healthcare system is barely functioning, with many hospitals destroyed, leaving injured children without proper care. The lack of medical supplies and the harsh living conditions make it almost impossible to treat these conditions, which are becoming more severe and life-threatening for these weak children.
Schools should be a safe haven, but they are frequently targeted in bombings, with over 300 schools completely destroyed and more than 500 severely damaged. This has left tens of thousands of students without a place to learn. With their educational institutions reduced to rubble, many children have been forced to continue their studies in tents, facing daunting challenges. These temporary shelters do not offer any protection from the ongoing violence, and the lack of basic resources like books, desks, and proper lighting makes it difficult to maintain any semblance of a normal education.
Little kids are being deprived of their childhood, their dreams shattered by the horrors of war. It is a pain that no child should endure. As I wrote in my poem, below:
Don’t ask me my age
How old are you?
– In times of war
A 5-year-old child is not 5 anymore
He lived 90 years in the span of 4
So please, don’t ask me my age
I implore
Published before: We Are Not Numbers
