we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
Children who lost parents before 2023 are not eligible for the emergency assistance available to post-war orphans.
Yousef wearing his father’s headphones. Photo: Marwa Jamal Rummaneh
More than 56,000 children in Gaza have lost one or both parents since the war began. Yet another vulnerable group receives far less attention: children who were already orphaned before the war, estimated at 22,000 by Gaza’s Ministry of Social Development.
Today, these children live through the same war, displacement, hunger, and fear as children who lost their parents during it. But many remain excluded from emergency assistance because their loss happened before October 2023.
Since the war began, our phone screens have been filled with links to aid programs for what are commonly called “war orphans.” For families of pre-war orphans, checking these links has become almost a daily routine. The widowed mothers, whose children lost a father prior to October 2023, open every new form hoping it might offer some help, only to find strict eligibility conditions or sometimes a message at the end saying, “Registration is only for war orphans.”
It is difficult not to ask: What about the children who lost a parent before the war?
Before the war, families who had lost a parent could often rely on orphan sponsorship programs, and basic necessities were more affordable. The war changed that. Prices rose, homes were destroyed, families were displaced and opportunities to earn a living became scarce. At the same time, the huge number of children newly orphaned by the war led many donors to direct their support specifically toward these cases.
For families like my sister’s, the timing of their loss has become a barrier.
I learned this firsthand when my sister Khaloud and her three children, Youssef, 13, Larin, 11, and Ahmed, 8, came to live with us. Their father died about a year and a half before the war. He had traveled to Egypt for treatment for an autoimmune disease. What was supposed to be a short trip became a four-month stay because of repeated border closures. He eventually died in Alexandria.
His children never saw him again or had the chance to say goodbye. He was buried in Alexandria by his parents and brothers. Bringing his body back to Gaza was far beyond what the family could afford, so my sister had to say her final goodbye through a video call.
The author’s sister Khaloud trying to register through an orphan support link on her phone. Photo: Marwa Jamal Rummaneh
At that time, my sister was a homemaker with no independent income. She and her children were already trying to adjust to life without a husband and father. They could not have imagined that another disaster would soon change their lives.
There is another painful part of their story. Through their father, the three children have Egyptian citizenship. After his death, the family believed their passports might give them a chance to leave Gaza, and find safety in Egypt if conditions worsened. They registered their names and waited for their turn to cross, but the border remained closed. Their names never appeared on the official evacuation lists before the crossing permanently closed. The passports remained, but they could not change their situation.
When the war began, the residential tower where they lived was destroyed, forcing them to move immediately and join us in our family home. Today, 13 adults and children share a two-bedroom apartment, leaving almost no privacy for my sister and her children.
Life revolves around basic things: Who will stand in line for water, who can find bread, and how the minimal amount of food gathered each day will be divided.
Although they live in the same circumstances, each child has responded differently.
Youssef, the eldest, has taken on responsibilities that should not be assumed by a child his age. Sometimes he stands in water or bread lines to give his mother a break. At other times, he helps at my brother’s supermarket with simple tasks in exchange for a small payment.
Larin has become quieter. When the bombing intensifies, she stays close to her mother, holds her hand, and tries to comfort her. Sometimes she sits beside her mother as she remembers her husband and cries.
Ahmed is still holding on to childhood. He is a Real Madrid fan, and his biggest wish is simply to have a football.
Among the few things the children managed to keep was an old pair of headphones that belonged to their father. Youssef no longer uses them, but he still carries them in his pocket wherever he goes.
Then came another painful reminder of how their loss was treated differently.
Youssef’s school asked his mother to come in because a charitable organization was registering orphaned children. A teacher had asked the class whether anyone was an orphan. Youssef raised his hand. His mother was told to come to the school, but no one explained that the assistance was only for children orphaned during the war.
My sister arrived, hoping this might finally bring some support to her family. A staff member began filling out the application and asked the usual questions. It was only when they reached the year of her husband’s death that the process stopped.
When the staff member learned that he had died before the war, she put down the pen, apologized and explained that the application was only for “war orphans.”
For my sister, the hardest part was not simply being rejected. It was realizing that a date could decide whether her children were considered eligible for help.
Iman Al-Shami, a displaced mother of three daughters and two sons, lost her husband to a sudden heart attack before the war. Her children are between 5 and 19 years old. Since the war began, they have been displaced several times, and eventually settled in a tiny rented room.
Iman’s responsibilities go beyond protecting her children from bombardment. She also has to carry water, gather firewood, stand in long lines, and keep five children calm in conditions that would exhaust anyone.
When Iman tried to register her children for orphan support, she received the same answer as my sister: they were not “war orphans.” Her eldest daughter later earned a high GPA and hoped to apply for an orphan scholarship, only to discover that the scholarship was also limited to war orphans.
Iman says what exhausts her most is having to explain these rejections to her children. They ask why they are excluded when they are as hungry, displaced and afraid as everyone else.
People waiting in a water line. Photo: Marwa Jamal Rummaneh
Across Gaza, many people now depend on humanitarian assistance to get through the day. Yet the way some programs are designed creates a line between those who qualify and those who do not.
In many cases, these conditions are set by donors rather than local organizations. Emergency funding is often earmarked for people directly affected by the current war, leaving local organizations with little flexibility to support families who lost their main provider earlier.
For families like my sister’s and Iman’s, food parcels, hygiene supplies, clothing, or monthly cash support could make a difference. It would not erase what they have lost, but it could reduce the burden on relatives who are already struggling to survive.
The problem is not that aid programs do not exist. The problem is that need assessment is determined by when a family lost their breadwinner, rather than by what they are facing now. These children did not choose when to lose their fathers. They did not choose to be displaced. And they did not choose the war. Their loss happened before the war, but their suffering is happening now.
If humanitarian assistance is meant to respond to need, then the question should not be the date that a child became an orphan. It should also be whether that child is safe, fed, sheltered and able to survive today.
This article is co-published with Washington Report on Middle East Affairs in a slightly revised format.
