Anas playing inside the educational tent. Photo: Ohood Nassar

Each morning, 10-year-old Anas* woke up to the voice of his father, who loved and encouraged him, calling him “Anas the Brave.”

His father would wake him up for the Fajr prayer, while his mother, already awake, would prepare tea, its aroma filling every corner of their home, and serve a delicious breakfast. The family loved to joke and share stories with each other at the table, connecting through home-cooked meals and laughter. Each time they asked Anas, the eldest son of three children, about his dreams, he answered with unwavering certainty: “I want to graduate with the highest grades.”

But on October 7, 2023, Anas’s life took a devastating turn. His beloved routine was shattered as missiles rained down, forcing him to abandon his school, his friends, and the desk where he once sat. His journey of suffering, loss, and displacement began.

Over the following months, Anas was forced to flee from one place to another—over 10 times. Each displacement deepened his pain, fear, and uncertainty about the future. He prayed every day for this nightmare to end, longing to return to the life he once knew.

One of the most terrifying moments came when he and his family sought refuge in his aunt’s home in Jabalia. Soon after their arrival, Israeli warplanes began bombing the surrounding buildings. The family huddled together in fear, questioning whether they would survive or join the growing number of wounded and dead.

A missile fired from an Israeli aircraft shattered those thoughts. It struck the upper floor of the house, where his aunt and her family were. In an instant, Anas and his loved ones were buried under the rubble.

When Anas regained consciousness, he found himself being carried by a paramedic, his hands stained with blood. Disoriented and terrified, he asked, “What happened? Am I okay? Where is my family?” The paramedic reassured him that he was safe, that the blood on his hands and face was from a minor wound on his nose.

For a brief moment, Anas felt relief—until he saw the lifeless body of his cousin being carried away, torn into pieces, his clothes soaked in blood.

Anas clung tightly to the paramedics, his fear escalating for his mother and younger sisters. Moments later, he was reunited with them, relieved to find that their injuries were minor. But the weight of loss crushed him. His aunt’s entire family had perished.

Anas tried to push aside the horrific image of his cousin’s body. He forced himself to adapt, to endure the cruel reality that the war would continue to rob him of those he loved. His displacement continued. Again and again, he asked himself: When will this end? When will I be able to return to the rubble of my home and sit once more at the family table, where laughter once filled the air?

Each time he was forced to flee, he prayed to God, not to return to a grand home, but simply to the ruins of what once was, where his family could build a small tent—one filled with love, safety, and peace.

But even that dream was shattered.

When the final invasion of Jabalia began a year later, in October 2024, Anas felt as if the war had intensified beyond anything he had experienced. Fear gripped him again as Israeli warplanes bombed every house around the shelter where he, his mother, and his little sisters had taken refuge.

His father had been trapped elsewhere in Jabalia, and it was impossible for them to reach him. For a month, they endured starvation and thirst, their only companion being fear. When they finally managed to escape westward, they left behind not only their home but also Anas’s father. His fate was unknown.

They reassured themselves that he was alive, that he had survived.

Then, whispers of a ceasefire began spreading. Hope flickered in Anas’s heart—the war would end, they would be safe, and his father’s siege would be lifted. It felt like a dream—soon, he would see his father again.

On the morning of January 19, 2025, the ceasefire was implemented. Jabalia was declared safe to return. Anas and his family rushed back, searching desperately for his father. A friend of his father, who had been trapped with him, delivered the crushing news: He was martyred. His body still lay beneath the rubble.

It was a moment beyond grief: losing their father, losing the chance to say goodbye, to kiss him one last time.

In early February, I set up a small educational tent next to my home, offering lessons for children who had been deprived of school for over a year. Anas, an eager and well-mannered student, was one of the first to join. After each lesson, we would sit together and talk—about life, war, and its hardships. But most of all, Anas spoke about his father. His longing for him was unending.

He was a bright and active student, participating with enthusiasm and even helping me decorate the classroom tent.

In mid-February, Anas suddenly stopped attending. Three days passed, and I grew worried. Had he fallen ill, perhaps due to the harsh winter? I asked his friends and neighbors.

His neighbor, Muhammad, gave me the heartbreaking answer:

“Anas didn’t come because his father’s body was finally recovered from the rubble after 72 days. He missed class to attend the funeral. He is devastated.”

I prayed for Anas, asking God to grant him patience and ease.

When he finally returned, I asked him gently, “How are you?”

He replied, “I don’t know how I feel. Should I grieve because I buried my father today? Or should I be relieved that his body was intact, that it had not decayed or been eaten by stray dogs?”

This is not just Anas’ story.

It is the story of thousands of children in Gaza, enduring pain even greater than his.

*Last name withheld for reasons of personal security.