A letter to my son: As you turn one today in Gaza, I feel joy and sorrow

Deir el-Balah – Today, Eyas, you turn one, and what an indescribable year it has been.
Who could have foreseen that war would overshadow your first year, making the sounds of missiles, warplanes and reconnaissance drones among the first to feature in your life?
Your basic needs have become our daily battle amid the war as we struggle to access clean water, baby formula, nappies, and your clothes for winter and summer.
Watching you grow brings me both joy and sorrow. You are growing up without colourful toys, without a cosy home to shelter you, without beautiful, soft clothing, and, most painfully, without the full energy of your father and I, as we are burdened by sadness, depression, and harsh circumstances all around.
Little displaced one, I don’t know whether to feel sadness or relief that you don’t yet understand the turmoil around you. But I know that a child your age should not endure such a harsh life.
Before you arrived last summer, I bought you the most beautiful clothes, set up your bed in a cheerful corner, had air conditioning installed to shield you from the heat and gathered numerous toys. Now, all of that lies in ruins.
War never featured in my plans or expectations. I thought you would be arriving at a more fortunate time than your eight-year-old sister with more access to different methods of education and wider availability of toys and books.
I am passionate about early learning curricula and the Montessori method and I couldn’t wait to begin your educational journey with you.
I will never forget the joy when, back in October, a few days before the war began, I bought you your first books in red and black – high-contrast images suitable for your age according to the Montessori method.
Finding these books in downtown Gaza City was a triumph. Little did I know that this would be the last time I would buy books for you for the foreseeable future.
I brought those books with us as we were displaced in Gaza City then to my grandfather’s house in Deir el-Balah following Israeli evacuation orders. They are your only belongings from the house where you made few memories.
Today, as you enter your second year, I cannot imagine what your future holds.
I prepared for everything, my child. I researched early childhood education, but this did not teach me how to raise a child during a war. The books I read and sessions I attended did not show me how to prepare your meals without fruits and vegetables or how to help you develop language skills without tools like pens or coloured cards. There was no guidance on how to raise you in the absence of trees, clothes, food, books, homes, children’s centres, and other resources.
What are we meant to do when the sounds of aeroplanes and bombings replace baby songs? Or when the scenes of destroyed houses, piles of rubbish, and displacement tents become a child’s first introduction to life instead of the sea, clean streets, quiet homes, and playgrounds? How are we meant to raise our children in displacement, in tents and shelters? How do we handle malnutrition and the scarcity of clean water? How do we combat infectious diseases and the shortage of infant formula? And there was no instruction for what to do with the thousands of orphaned babies and children.
It has been a disastrous year, my child. I am so sorry.
War was thrust upon us, and you and the babies of your generation paid the price in your very first months.
My baby, you are not alone in this suffering that you don’t yet understand. There are many babies like you. I see them in the tents during my reporting, crying from hunger, cold, and heat, while their mothers cry for help.
They suffer from the rashes that invade their little bodies due to a lack of diapers, hygiene, and water.
Every time I meet a hungry baby, I think of you, imagine you tired and hungry, and run to help without thinking. At times we donated cans of the little formula we have for you to other hungry children.
I often ask myself: “How can the world allow babies to go hungry? How can the world sleep peacefully while children in Gaza cry from hunger, fatigue, and pain?”
You may not believe – after you grow up, when you read this letter – that this madness continued for more than nine months and still goes on, without intervention, protection, mercy, or solution, only more killing, blood, destruction, and tears.
No one did anything, my child. The world turned its back on the images of corpses and the sounds of cries of terror and hunger. The world blocked its ears and closed its eyes to the suffering.
But, my little one, in your first year, your presence has brought us solace in this difficult time.
Your innocent smile has been a balm for us all amid the sadness. Your playful antics have brought joy to the displacement shelter where we live and your appearance in ill-fitting clothing is a source of laughter and light-heartedness. When I return from work, seeing you lifts my spirits and reminds me that there is something worth living for as long as you are well.
You, my child, and all the children of your generation deserve nothing but love, joy, and a full life. You are our future, our present, and our never-fading hope.
This war will eventually pass, and your laughter and smile will remain as a symbol of our strength and steadfastness. Happy birthday, my little one!