The scene of the accident involving the child Abeer. Photo: Sumaya Mohammed

In Gaza, it is possible to survive air strikes and deadly shells, but not their devastating impact on buildings. Displaced people who seek shelter in a damaged building might find that a concrete wall collapses suddenly, ruthlessly crushing any life beneath it.

These incidents are rarely reported in publications but are regularly recounted in conversations here, and their psychological impact is just as brutal as any bombing.

On March 21, 2026, east of the city of Khan Younis, 11-year-old Abeer Al-Najjar was making a cardboard rose inside her tent to give to her mother for Mother’s Day. She was cutting the paper, shaping it with her hands, and sticking it together with glue, as she always loved to do.

She dreamed of becoming an artist when she grew up — she always loved colors and paper. She drew many innocent drawings and made cute paper butterflies, cats, and hearts.

But even these simple moments are confined to a precarious reality. Violent artillery shelling sounded, targeting all the eastern areas of the city of Khan Younis, coinciding with rainstorms that drowned the tents and very strong winds that tore them apart. Cold and terror penetrated Abeer’s bones and gripped her body so that she could no longer bear the harsh conditions. 

She tried to flee with her mother to a place of shelter, bringing her flower with her, trying to protect it from the rain. As she was walking, Abeer passed near a fragile building that seemed to her, for a moment, to be safer and better protection than a tent. But a shaky cement block fell on her, killing her instantly.

She wasn’t killed by a missile but by the destruction it had left behind. The child’s soul departed, but her memory remained in the rose that was not given. 

I first heard Abeer’s story from my neighbor, whose relatives in Khan Younis had witnessed the incident. She recounted it to me with deep emotion, as if she had lost her own daughter. Her anxiety for her children had further increased after hearing the news.

Abeer was not the only one who has faced this fate. 

On March 15, there were three deaths and several injuries caused by the collapse of the wall of the Rabat College building onto the tents of the displaced, in the Al-Mawasi area, south of Khan Younis. Among those killed was a girl whose father had recently bought her Eid clothes. She had been so happy to get the new clothes, but she was killed just days before Eid arrived.

After a few days, the tragedy repeated itself in a different but no less harsh way.

On March 18, Adham Tariq Al-Attar, aged 8, went out with his mother to buy Eid clothes. He was excited and cheerful and insisted on choosing a blue shirt, because it resembled the uniform of the school which he could no longer attend. This outing had been anticipated to be a rare moment of joy, but it turned into a blood-soaked tragedy.

On Montazah Al-Baladiya Street in Gaza City, Adham was standing next to his mother, when a cracked wall of a damaged building fell directly onto him. He was instantly crushed. He never had the chance to enjoy wearing his new shirt on Eid morning.

One of the roses that Abeer made for her mother right before her death. Photo courtesy of the family of Abeer Al-Najjar

The story of Adham spread quickly through people’s phones, and a journalist shared it, expressing his despair over the war and praying for mercy for Adham and patience and solace for his mother.

I learned of these deaths from conversations and messages passed between local people and from journalists’ posts on social media about the recurrent tragic incidents in the area.

People receive the news with heavy hearts and despondency. They recite the repeated expressions of condolence and consolation among themselves — now an integral part of the daily routine. Then they fall into a bitter silence.

Others ask quietly where the terrible event happened, as if they are preparing for their own death, which could come from anywhere. They realize that surviving the bombing does not ensure that life will go on. There remains an ominous threat, left behind in the ruins.

Nothing shocks us anymore. Anything can happen — incidents are not isolated, but repeated every day in a variation of the same tragedy.

I do not mean to create an impression that people are no longer being deliberately killed or that the direct danger has disappeared. Assassinations, targeting, bombings, and bulldozing operations have continued since the first day of the alleged ceasefire, without the slightest military response from the people of Gaza. The indirect incidents that occur add yet another layer of hidden dangers and inescapable fear.

In Gaza, some stories come to an end before their time and are remembered by a flower that was never given and a shirt that was never worn, leaving indelible traces that linger in the dark corners of the memory.

This article is co-published with Washington Report on Middle East Affairs.