Janan Saleh Al-Saqafi, who died of starvation and dehydration on May 3, 2025. Photo circulating on social media

She was a dream,
                        a hope,
                                     a treasure,
for the one who bore her in her womb for nine months,
and the one who carried the weight of the world to feed them both.

She will become a teacher, a generation maker, said the mother.
Or maybe a doctor, said the father, to mend my back when I grow old.
An artist, she smiled, to bring color to this broken world.
                        A leader,
                                    a light,
                                                our dearest little friend,
                                                            they both agreed.

After nine months of war, the child was finally born.
                        Slender fingers,
                                    a soft nose,
                                                pale pink lips.   
                                                            Later, her giggles and cries
                                                                        proved that once she was alive.
But she was skin and bones.

Nineteen months of war and starvation made the mother’s body,
too, skin and bones. There was no milk in her breasts.
She blamed herself, and wished she could carve out her flesh
and press it into Janan’s body, so that she might grow
heavy enough to survive. She watched her daughter fade, day by day, 
hooked to beeping machines, until her last breath of life.

She wished that a miracle could open her daughter’s eyes again.
She wished she could tuck Janan back into her womb,
hide her from the world’s cruelty, keep her safe,
and only birth her when the war had no name—
and death no longer called itself Israel.

She kissed her nose,
            her closed eyes, her fingers,
                        her cold cheeks.
                                    She washed them with her tears.
She smelled her neck to breathe her innocence
into her heart. She hugged her one last hug, then watched
the earth swallow the girl who never knew her name.

Now she carries her daughter’s grave in her heart—
a living tomb where Janan will never be cold or alone.
I’ll carry you with me wherever I go, she promised.
I’ll grow old with you and watch children your age and imagine
                        you’d be a noisy teenager now,
                                    a girl in a graduation gown,
                                                            a glowing bride.

Janan, she was to be a heaven on Earth for her mother and father,
but Israel stole her from them before her time.

Writer’s note: Because Israel has closed the borders and prevented humanitarian aid from entering the Gaza Strip since March 2, 2025, many mothers and fathers have suffered from losing their babies. On May 3, the baby girl Janan Saleh Al-Saqafi died from malnutrition and dehydration; her weight had dropped to 2.8kg at three months old. Her death caused unbearable pain to her parents. I dedicate this poem to every mother, father, and child in the Gaza Strip.