In the Jabalia refugee camp in northern Gaza, the screams of an 11-year-old boy named Ahmad pierce the air. “I want my Baba, my Baba, Baba,” Ahmad sobs. His call resonates throughout the camp, revealing the deep void left by his father’s murder at the hands of Israeli occupying forces.
“Where are you, Baba?” Why did they murder you? What crime did he commit?
People try to console the grieving boy, but he is beyond consolation: “He promised me that he would stay alive and not leave. I’m tired. Leave me alone.”
Meanwhile, a few thousand miles away in Belgium, another Palestinian boy, 15-year-old Zain, mourns the loss of his father, Tel Aviv Tribune cameraman Samer Abudaqa. Zain recounts the tragedy that unfolded on December 15, revealing the cruelty of his father’s killing by an Israeli drone.
After being hit by shrapnel, Samer bled to death for five hours on the grounds of Farhanah, the high school I attended in Khan Younis. Three members of an ambulance crew, including my friend Rami Budeir, who had tried to rescue Samer, were also targeted and killed.
The enormity of the atrocity is etched in Zain’s eyes and tearful face as he speaks of his father. He commits to praying for him every day. His voice cracks as he sings a song he had written for his father. “My heart misses you. The separation tortures me. My heart, after you, is lost, and bitterness is the taste of my mouth.
The words of Zain in Belgium, the cries of Ahmad in Jabaliia reach me here in Edmonton, Canada.
I find myself sobbing, unable to shake off the images of their pain or answer the questions they bring up. My heart has broken a thousand times in the last 80 days and it is breaking again. I cannot escape the thoughts of these children, enduring the lasting trauma of being intentionally orphaned by a genocidal army.
What makes the pain even more unbearable is that Zain is the same age as my own son, Aziz, and looks strikingly similar to him in every aspect: facial features, height, body, voice and even choice of clothing. and hairdressing. These strange similarities intensify the deep sadness I feel for Zain and the hundreds of thousands of children who lost their parents, relatives and friends in Gaza.
Thinking of Zain and his father who were targeted while wearing a press jacket, my thoughts turn to another Palestinian orphan, 12-year-old Donia Abu Muhsen.
Donia was recovering at Nasser Hospital in Khan Younis, when Samer’s body was brought in and prepared for the funeral. Israeli bombing of a house where Donia and her family were sheltering killed her parents and two siblings and shattered her leg, requiring amputation.
When Donia looks at the camera in a video shot a few days before her death, a slight smile appears on her face. His will to live and dream is strong. She says she wants to study and become a doctor. “We are alone now without (my family). I was very connected with (them). But I have to continue,” she says.
But the Israeli occupying forces did not allow him to do so. Two days after murdering Samer, they killed Donia’s dream. They bombed the Nasser Hospital, murdering the young orphan girl in her hospital bed.
I wonder about the other children who survive but whose hearts and bodies are broken, with no one left in their extended family to care for them. Another young orphan, perhaps Donia’s age, shares her heartbreaking story in another video. She recounts the loss of 70 people, including her parents, siblings, grandparents, aunts and uncles, as they sought shelter in a beach cottage after losing their home.
Only she and her five-year-old brother Kanan survived. Unable to walk and in urgent need of surgery, she prays for the Rafah crossing to open, hoping for a chance to leave.
She is one of 55,000 injured people currently abandoned by the world, scattered across Gaza, where a man-made medical collapse is occurring. In tears, with a voice and facial expression that would take your breath away, the girl said: “If the border doesn’t open within 48 hours, I won’t be able to walk anymore. I’m in a lot of pain, I miss walking and I miss my parents a lot.
Faced with the horror and pain experienced by the children of Gaza, the call for justice is not a simple plea, it is a global appeal to humanity, to its collective conscience, if it still exists .
This comes at a time when the powers that be, led by America, openly support this genocide and oppose ending it. They are ensuring that more children are left orphaned, hungry, homeless, bombarded day and night, and deprived of access to health care, education, and the love and care of their parents.
Yet there is also a growing chorus of voices of peace and hope.
Russian-American activist Masha Gessen, after receiving the Hannah Arendt Prize, highlighted the crucial opportunity the world still has to intervene in Gaza. Gessen emphasized: “The biggest difference between Gaza and the Jewish ghettos of Nazi-occupied Europe is that many Gazans, most Gazans, are still alive and the world still has the opportunity to do something thing about it. »
Even though we were unable to save Donia and Zain’s parents, Ahmad and the little orphan, there is still a chance to save those who are still alive in Gaza. We need a ceasefire now!
The opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial position of Tel Aviv Tribune.
