18,000. At first glance, it might seem like just a number, massive, overwhelming even. But take a moment to imagine that number representing children!
18,000 innocent children killed in Gaza since the war began in 2023. Eighteen thousand children who did nothing wrong except being born Palestinian. But is that all this is? Just a number to be added to reports, then forgotten? No.
This number means 18,000 dreams erased, little lives that no longer exist and families shattered, some children killed alone, others killed alongside their parents. It means 18,000 futures burned before they began.
International laws and all religions agree on one universal truth: children must never be harmed in war. Yet in Gaza, this truth is violated daily. The Geneva Conventions and the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child clearly state that children must be protected at all times, even during conflict. But in Gaza, children are not just caught in the crossfire they are often the targets. No child should lose their life, their home, or their innocence because of war.
But Gaza tells another story.
Children here face hunger that gnaws at their abdomens, severe malnutrition, thirst, cold, and a fear that has etched itself into their eyes. They no longer go to schools to chase their dreams; instead, they stand in endless lines for a handful of flour or a piece of stale bread, just to keep their families alive. They walk the streets with fear written across their faces, silently asking: Where is safety? Why aren’t we like the other children of the world?
Under international humanitarian law, particularly the Geneva Conventions and the Convention on the Rights of the Child, children must be protected from violence, hunger, displacement, and trauma. Yet every day in Gaza, dozens of children are killed, their lives cut short by bombs and bullets. Thousands more have lost limbs, their ability to walk, see, or hear. Tens of thousands are now orphans left without care, without protection, without a home.
From the Frontlines of Al-Shifa
As an emergency nurse at Al-Shifa Hospital during the war, I found myself locked in an emotional battle every time I treated a wounded child.
Each wave of airstrikes brought dozens. I often stood frozen, overwhelmed by the severity of their injuries shrapnel, burns, bleeding from places too many to count.
One memory haunts me still: a baby girl, only a few months old, her face was blue, barely breathing. Her family thought she was already dead. But something inside me said, “She’s alive. Don’t give up.”
I ran toward her, searching her tiny dove-like body for injuries. I found a small wound: a thin shard of metal had entered her chest, collapsing her lung. I rushed her to intensive care unit ICU, calling for help. We inserted a chest tube and drained the blood and miraculously she came back to life.
For a moment, I felt as if I held the world in my hands. But my joy was shattered seconds later by the cries of a mother whose three children had just killed in another airstrike.
Children With No Names
I used to repeat the phrase, “Children are not numbers.”
But in the ER, we were sometimes forced to label children with codes, not names. Many arrived unidentified, they were in shock and could not speak or express themselves. For us, they became “Patient X” or “Number 12.”
After I left the hospital and relocated to a displacement camp in Rafah, I saw something even worse. Sewage filled the streets. There was no food, no water, no safety.
Children stood barefoot in endless lines from sunrise, not to play or laugh — but to wait, silently, holding pots and hollow stomachs. Their eyes were tired. Their voices were gone. Their childhood was stolen.
I often wondered: What future do these children have? How will they see the world — a world that turned its back on them? And if they survive, how will they return to school, to life, to hope?
International law says children have the right to life, to health, to education — but in Gaza, even survival feels like a luxury.
A Moment I’ll Never Forget
One day, as I walked toward the sea, hoping to clear my mind, a girl around fifteen stopped me. She looked like she came from a well-off family once, but now her clothes were worn, her voice faint.
She asked, “Would you buy this bread? I’m tired and want to go home early.”
I asked, “Why are you selling bread? Where’s your father?”
She replied softly, “My father was killed. I have little brothers, and a baby who needs milk. My mom has no money. We used to have a house, and a father who gave us everything. Now I work to feed them.”
I bought all the bread she had, then walked away quickly. I thought I had a strong heart. I faced blood, trauma, and death. But looking into her eyes was harder than working in a pool of blood.
A Message From a Child of Gaza
What I’ve seen is only what’s visible. What happens behind the tents and rubble is even worse. If I were a child, I would say to the world:
We have dreams. We have hopes. We deserve a future.
We belong in schools and parks not in food lines or streets.
We deserve healthcare, safety, and the arms of our parents not to grow up without them.
We are not stones. We are human.
