Those who had the misfortune of growing up in a war zone require no explanation. War is hell, it is true—but for children, it is something else entirely: a confusing, disorienting fate that defies comprehension.

There are children who live only briefly, experiencing whatever life manages to offer them: the love of parents, the camaraderie of siblings, the fragile joys and inevitable hardships of existence.

There are over 20,000 children in this category who have been killed in Gaza over the span of roughly two years, according to figures released by the Gaza Health Ministry and repeatedly cited by United Nations agencies. Some were born and killed within the same short time frame.

Others remain buried beneath the rubble of the destroyed strip. According to humanitarian and forensic experts cited by the United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA), thousands of bodies are still missing under collapsed buildings, with recovery efforts hindered by the scale of destruction and lack of equipment. In some cases, extreme heat, fire, and the use of heavy explosive weaponry have rendered identification nearly impossible, meaning that many of these children may never be properly accounted for, let alone mourned at a grave.

None of us had any understanding of who these men were or why they were hurting the people who cared for us.

These children will not have graves to be visited. And if they do, many will have no living parents left to pray for them. But we will always do.

And then, there are those who are wounded and maimed—tens of thousands of them. Visiting Amro, the wounded son of a relative who perished along with his entire family in Gaza, I witnessed one of the most heartbreaking sights one could possibly endure: the wounded and maimed children of Gaza in a Turkish hospital.

There were a few teenagers, many without limbs. Hospital staff had adorned them with the beloved Palestinian keffiyeh. Those who could flashed the victory sign, and those who had no arms raised what remained of their limbs, as if to tell every wandering visitor that they stand for something deep and unyielding, that their losses were not in vain.

But then there were the little ones, who experienced trauma without fully comprehending even the magnitude of their tragedy. They stared in confusion at everyone—the unfamiliar faces, the incomprehensible languages spoken around them, the empty walls.

My nephew kept speaking of his parents, who were meant to visit him any day. They were both gone, along with his only brother.

I was in kindergarten in a refugee camp in Gaza when I witnessed my first military raid. The target was our school. I still recall our teachers pushing back against soldiers as they forced their way into the building. I remember them being physically assaulted, screaming at us to run toward the orchard.

We began running while holding hands with one another. We were all wearing matching red outfits with stickers on our faces—none of us had any understanding of who these men were or why they were........

© Common Dreams