Two years have passed since the sky split open over our lives, tearing everything into “before” and “after.” Two years of constant fear, rivers of blood, and the unrelenting sorrow of losing loved ones. Two years of shattered homes, scattered bodies, the dead and the missing, and entire neighborhoods reduced to rubble. Two years of forced displacement, endless flights, and losing the homeland we once called our own. Two years of evacuation orders and so-called “safe zones” that were anything but safe. Two years of hearing the roar of drones and fighter jets overhead, of sleeping amidst the trembling of the earth under relentless bombs, of constant hunger gnawing at our bellies, and children’s eyes hollowed by fear and starvation. Two years of water and electricity cut off, and hospitals destroyed or deliberately targeted, roads blocked by destruction, markets empty, schools closed, playgrounds vanished; life reduced to survival amid ruins. Two years of following news that pierces the soul, of seeing frightened children longing for a life that no longer exists. I never imagined I would still be alive at this moment, still holding my children while the world around us collapses. I have lost so much, yet my heart aches watching the suffering of my people and my city.
Our city, Gaza, has fallen apart many times, and with each collapse, our hearts shatter with it. I follow the news with trembling hearts, and my son looks at me with tears in his eyes, whispering: “It seems we will never return, never see Gaza again.” And I ask myself: “Why was all this written for us? Why must our children experience fear, hunger, and death before they even understand childhood? Why have we lost thousands of children; numbers that barely reflect reality, as hospitals cannot register all losses?”
A mother’s pain
I have faced situations I never imagined: fleeing with my children from place to place, covering their eyes with my hands to protect them from seeing blood and torn bodies, teaching them patience and resilience even when I myself do not know how to endure. How can I teach them to face the loss of relatives, the destruction of their schools, the loss of their playgrounds? How can I comfort them while my own heart is broken? Every morning, I hug them before leaving for work, afraid I will not see them again, leaving instructions for them to care for one another, praying for their safety in a world seemingly determined to take everything from us.
Yet my suffering is not unique. Mothers across Gaza endure horrors beyond description. They lose husbands, children, and homes. They go hungry, often sacrificing their own meager food so that the weakest among their children might survive. Some women finally succeed in giving birth after years of longing and struggle, only to witness their children killed before their eyes in brutal airstrikes. Pregnant women face unimaginable risks, giving birth without hospitals, medicine, or anesthesia; many undergo Caesarean sections without proper pain relief. Miscarriages have risen alarmingly; more than 300% during this war. Even the simplest rites of mourning for a lost child have been denied to mothers. Life has become a daily calculation: how do we preserve the fragile lives of our children when every moment carries danger, and how do mothers endure the unbearable grief of losing the children they fought for years to have?
Most of Gaza’s population has been forced into displacement, seeking refuge in shelters, schools, hospitals, or with relatives. I hear stories of pregnant women giving birth in overcrowded tents, lacking food, medicine, and electricity. Every day, babies are born weak, often too fragile to survive.
“Trapped in endless fear, hunger, and despair”
My heart aches knowing that around 130 children are born daily in Gaza, many in tents or overcrowded shelters, their mothers weakened by hunger, exhaustion, and psychological trauma. These children arrive frail, far more vulnerable than they should be, at high risk for long-term health complications. Sometimes incubators fail, and medical assistance is impossible, leaving the few remaining healthcare workers to perform miracles under unimaginable conditions.
I have seen mothers hold children unable to nurse, pressing them to their chests as if their warmth alone could keep life alive. One mother told me: “I hadn’t eaten for days, and my baby cried for milk I couldn’t provide.” All of this happens under the constant roar of drones and fighter jets overhead, a relentless reminder of how fragile life is. The pain of a mother unable to feed, protect, or even grieve her child is deeper than any bomb.
In Gaza, war does not just take lives; it wears them down slowly, leaving mothers and children trapped in endless fear, hunger, and despair. Hospitals are in ruins, medical supplies are disappearing, and doctors have to perform surgeries in near darkness, sometimes making impossible choices just to save a life. Maternal and infant deaths are not just numbers; they are lived realities; a mother watching her newborn struggle to breathe, a child lost to circumstances no parent should ever face.
Motherhood, resilience and resistance
Yet, even amidst this horror, the bond between mother and child endures, unbroken and defiant. Mothers cradle their children as if holding the very future in their arms, whispering stories, prayers, and gentle reassurances to calm trembling hearts. They offer warmth when blankets are scarce, protection when the world offers none, and courage when every instinct tells them to despair. Hunger, exhaustion, and fear have become inseparable from daily life, yet mothers press on, drawing strength from their care and teaching their children resilience in a world stripped of safety. Maternal trauma is no longer theory here; it is visible in every trembling hand, every tear-filled eye, every quiet act of love that keeps life alive.
Children arrive at clinics with empty bellies and broken eyes, seeking even a single nutritional supplement. Mothers watch helplessly, feeling guilt and sorrow as they struggle to shield their children from despair. In crowded shelters and temporary tents, women wrap their children tightly in whatever blankets they can find, whispering lullabies to hide their own fear, pressing warmth and hope into fragile bodies. Every small act: feeding a child, wiping a tear, holding a trembling hand, becomes a battle against war’s relentless weight.
After two years of war, I have come to see motherhood in Gaza as a form of visible resilience. Every shared meal, every wiped tear, every heartbeat we protect is an act of resistance. Even in the absence of hope, mothers continue to preserve life, one breath at a time. The lullabies we whisper, the hands we hold, the meals we find, the prayers we utter; all are our weapons, small but vital, in a world that seems determined to destroy them.
And now, as the second year of relentless war comes to a close end, I am reminded of the words of Amal Dunqul:
“Do not reconcile…
Even if it deprives you of sleep, the cries of regret.
And remember…
If your heart is for the women in black,
And for their children whose smiles have been stolen.”
These lines echo in every corner of Gaza, in every mother’s touch, in every trembling child clinging to warmth. They are a reminder that we cannot make peace with the cruelty that surrounds us, the destruction of homes, the loss of loved ones, the silent suffering of our children. And I ask again, as darkness falls over our city: Will our children ever see skies without drones? Will they run through streets without fear? Will we, as mothers, ever rest even for a moment, knowing we survived two years of unending terror? There are no answers, only questions.
Nour Z. Jarada, a Gazan Mental Health Manager at Médecins du Monde