we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
Numbness, nightmares, and minds stuck in survival mode: Genocide survivors deal with the psychological aftermath of war.
Nabil Mughari, 6, became desensitized to bombing. Photo: Hadeel Mughari
The impact of Israel’s war on Gaza has gone far beyond physical destruction. Despite the declared truce, life has not returned to normal. Gaza’s children and adults alike carry the psychological scars of conflict, their lives fractured by relentless violence.
Some children, like six-year-old Nabil Mughari, grew desensitized to the deafening sounds of war. When Apache helicopters and F-16 jets bombed two homes and two tents belonging to the Saleh and Shaqoura families in Deir Al-Balah, Nabil woke to the roar of the Apache hovering low over their neighborhood. He heard the first missile strike from the helicopter and then the second launched by the fighter jet.
“‘They’re taking too long,’ he told me,” his mother, Hadeel Mughari, recalls. “‘I just want to sleep.’ I told him, foolishly, ‘Don’t worry, habibi. They’ll stop soon.’ He stayed awake until the strikes ended and the helicopters withdrew.”
Hadeel adds, “This isn’t strength or bravery. I wish I knew what was happening inside my son. At the beginning of the war, he used to ask, ‘Mama, if I die alone, will you be sad?’ I would tell him, ‘I won’t let you die alone. I’ll die with you.’ Somehow, he’s transformed from a terrified child to someone who can tolerate the sound of missiles, as long as he can go back to sleep.”
Other children have not adapted to the horrors of war. Nine-year-old Siwar Al-Aswad, who fled on foot from Israeli bulldozers during an incursion in Beit Lahia, still cannot escape her terror. Her father, Ramadan Al-Aswad, explains, “She used to have panic attacks during the bombing. Even now, after the truce, she hasn’t recovered. One night, when she heard the sound of an ambulance speeding by, she woke up in a panic, shouting, ‘A missile is coming! It’s going to hit us!’”
For 8-year-old Rahaf al Khalidi, the nightmares persist long after her escape from the bombing at Al-Shati Camp. Since relocating to Deir Al-Balah, Rahaf still dreams that her host family’s house is under attack. Her mother, Rema al Khalidi, says, “She dreams the same nightmare once or twice a week. She wakes up screaming, calling for an ambulance to save her. She always imagines her legs are injured. She cries, ‘Mama, Mama, there’s blood on my leg, there’s blood.’”
Rahaf al Khalidi, 8, suffers nightmares. Photo: Reem al Khalidi
These experiences are not isolated. A recent study conducted by a Gaza-based NGO, supported by War Child, revealed that 96% of children in Gaza feel that death is imminent. Nearly half of them wish for death, unable to endure the psychological toll of war. The study also found that 92% of children refuse to accept their reality, 79% suffer from nightmares, and 73% exhibit signs of aggression.
Adding to this crisis, the Shams Center has warned of the long-term mental health risks for Gaza’s children. The destruction of hospitals and psychological health facilities, coupled with the blockade that limits medical supplies from entering the territory, has left those suffering from trauma without treatment. Experts and educators in the field of mental health have been killed or displaced, exacerbating an already dire situation.
The psychological impact extends to adults, many of whom remain haunted by their experiences. Ali Al-Aswad, a photographer from Jabalia, recalls how he and his neighbors learned to distinguish with grim precision between the sounds of destruction — the roar of missiles targeting homes, the crackle of Apache gunfire, and the thunder of artillery shells — and to predict the impact zones of artillery shells.
“There were two types of artillery strikes,” he explains. “One came from the howitzer cannons stationed at the borders, and the other from mortar shells mounted on military vehicles. If a howitzer fired from the eastern areas, we would count three to four seconds until it exploded nearby. When the strikes came from the north, it was eight seconds. We’d know exactly where the shell landed based on the time between the firing sound and the explosion.”
They could do nothing except wait for the shell to land.
Ali Al-Aswad, who narrowly escaped death during an incursion in northern Gaza, describes the lingering effects of his trauma.
“I’m alive, but I don’t feel like myself. My mind is constantly scattered. Sometimes I look for something I’m already holding in my hands. The sound of screeching car tires makes me freeze, certain a missile is about to fall. On rainy nights, when I hear thunder, unconsciously I put my head between my knees. It sounds like the occupation’s machinery. My brain is stuck in survival mode, even though the bombing has stopped and I’ve left the north.”
Ali Al-Aswad has difficulty concentrating. Photo: Ali Al-Aswad
In Gaza, trauma is not a fleeting consequence of bombing — it is a way of life. For many, the truce offers no comfort, only a fragile pause in an unending cycle of violence. While the world calls for a return to “normality,” the people of Gaza know there is no normal in the rubble of destroyed homes, in the empty classrooms, or in their broken psyches.
As many studies and testimonies make clear, the wounds of the aggression in Gaza are not just physical. They are etched into the hearts and minds of a population that continues to endure what seems unbearable to the rest of the world.
