Kids of The Gaza Holocaust

By Nour Dawood

Since October 2023, when Israel launched its genocidal war in Gaza, over 16,800 children have been killed. Behind each staggering statistic lies a name, a face, a story. These children had dreams, hopes, families who loved them, and futures that will never unfold. Israel may claim military objectives, but the reality on the ground reveals children at the heart of its devastation.


Here, we honor the stories of 20 children whose lives were brutally cut short. Their stories have been pieced together through interviews with their families, social media posts, and news reports. These are not just numbers. They are names, stories, and tragedies that must not be forgotten.

Aya and Aboud Abu Oun (6 and 5 years old)

Siblings Aya and Aboud Abu Oun were killed on October 17. Their mother, Asmaa Mughari, shared their memory with heartbreaking tributes on social media. Aboud, her youngest, had picked out a jacket he was excited to wear but never got the chance. His love for drawing was so strong that the family kept searching the rubble of their home, hoping to find any of his sketches. “I keep asking them if they found anything,” Asmaa shared.


In another post, Asmaa celebrated Aya’s first graduation certificate. “It was your first achievement in school, and I’m so proud of you—both in life and in death,” she wrote, expressing the unbearable pride and loss every parent hopes never to experience.

Hind Rajab (6 years old)

On January 29, six-year-old Hind Rajab was killed when an Israeli tank fired at her family’s car in Tal Al-Hawa. According to the UN’s Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights (OHCHR), forensic evidence confirmed that the shots came from close range. Hind was trapped among the bodies of her family members for hours, crying for help over the phone in her final moments.


Her mother, Wissam Hamadah, shared the agony of not being able to save her. “My sweetheart, I couldn’t reach you. Forgive me,” she tearfully recounted. Hind’s body was recovered days later, along with two paramedics who had been killed while trying to rescue her.

Juman Fahem Husnin (13 years old)

Juman was a bright, ambitious 13-year-old who excelled in school and Islamic studies, even memorizing the Quran. She had dreams, especially of peace, hoping for a day when her family would be reunited without the fear of war. On her birthday, December 1, she expressed this wish, but just six days later, an Israeli missile struck her home, killing her, her two sisters, Yaman and Bisan, and wiping out most of her family.


Her aunt shared a deeply emotional tribute: “The missile erased them from our civil registry, but not from our hearts. Juman’s smile, her kind eyes, remain untouched, even by war.”

Mohammed and Zeina Hijazi (4 and 2 years old)

Mohammed and Zeina Hijazi were displaced from their home in northern Gaza to Deir Al-Balah, seeking refuge from relentless bombings. But even in displacement, they found no safety. On December 23, Israeli airstrikes killed both children. Their father remembered Mohammed’s love for simple joys—cake on his birthday, mulukhiyah, and shawarma. “He was so excited to start kindergarten, but instead, he joined the kindergarten of paradise.”


Zeina, only two years old, adored her older brother. She would often tease him by pulling his hair, but they were inseparable. “When Zeina took her first steps, Mohammed was the one who excitedly shared the news with our family,” their father recalled. “Now, they walk together in paradise.”

Laya Naim (3 years old)

Laya was a lively three-year-old with a love for staying up late, dancing, and playing in the water. On January 6, she was killed in Gaza City by an Israeli airstrike. Her mother, Asma Naim, shared her grief through poignant words: “You loved everything about life—parties, swimming, strawberries. I can’t grasp that you’re gone.”


The memory of Laya’s blue dress, her messy hair, and her infectious joy lives on in her mother’s heart. “You loved your father so much, and you looked just like him,” Asma shared, her pain reflected in every word.

Yousef Abu Mousa (7 years old)

Known for his big heart and his habit of initiating family group hugs, Yousef was a joyful presence in his home. His father remembers how Yousef would always ask about his work hours and excitedly greet him when he came home. “Every time I went to work, he’d run to me, hug me, and kiss me. He was always the first one there,” his father shared.


On October 15, an Israeli airstrike hit their family home, taking Yousef’s young life. His father’s pain is immeasurable: “I lost everything, but the biggest loss was my son Yousef.”

Habiba Abd El-Qader (9 years old)

Habiba, a talented young girl, excelled at school and loved painting. She had dreams of becoming a doctor, but those dreams were destroyed when an Israeli airstrike hit her home on October 25. Her mother, Feda’a Murjan, begged for an end to the bloodshed. “Please stop all of this. My Habiba is gone, and I don’t want more mothers to go through this pain.”

Abdullah and Mahmoud Abu Salima (15 years old)

Twins Abdullah and Mahmoud were avid soccer players with dreams of representing Palestine on the national team. Abdullah hoped to become a defender, while Mahmoud aspired to be a goalkeeper. Their connection was more than just brotherly love—they shared the same passion, the same goals. Mahmoud would often proudly declare that he was “seconds” older than his brother.


On October 23, their dreams were shattered when an airstrike killed both boys, their mother, and several other family members.

Reem Nabhan (3 years old)

Reem was the apple of her grandfather Khaled’s eye. He lovingly called her “the soul of the soul” and, even during the war, would bike long distances just to get her favorite foods like ketchup. “Reem was a part of my life,” Khaled told Anadolu Agency, his voice breaking as he recounted how an Israeli airstrike struck their home.

“I found myself buried under the rubble,” he said. “I suffered bruises, and my daughter was injured, but worst of all, we lost Reem and Tariq, my beloved grandchildren. My other son and daughter were also wounded.”

His dreams of seeing Reem grow up, go to university, and turn to him for advice on her future were shattered. “She was my light,” he added.

Salma Jaber (4 years old)

Salma was the spirited middle child between her older sister, Sarah, and her younger brother, Omar. On December 5, as their family tried to flee northern Gaza for safety, Salma ran towards her father, a photographer working for UNRWA, when she was shot and killed. “My three-year-old son, Omar, still asks me where Salma is,” Hussein Jaber told Al Jazeera. “He doesn’t understand how she could have been walking beside him, and now she’s just gone.”

Her absence haunts the family as they struggle to explain the incomprehensible to a child who can only remember her as a constant, loving presence.

Mahmoud Al-Dahdouh (15 years old)

Affectionately called “Little Wael” after his father, veteran Al Jazeera correspondent Wael Al-Dahdouh, Mahmoud was determined to follow in his father’s footsteps. During the war, he and his sister Kholoud posted videos documenting Gaza’s suffering, pleading for help. “There is no safe place in Gaza. This is the fiercest war we’ve ever known,” they said in one video.

On October 25, Mahmoud’s life was cut short along with his mother, his seven-year-old sister, Sham, and his infant nephew, Adam, in an Israeli airstrike on Nuseirat refugee camp. Twenty-one others perished with them.

Mahmoud’s dream of becoming a journalist and sharing Gaza’s story with the world died that day, but his voice lives on through the videos he courageously shared.

Lauren Al-Koumi (2 years old)

Lauren was the “long-awaited joy” of her family. Her uncle, Akram Hassan, mourned the niece he adored before ever holding her. “For the first and last time, I became an uncle. Lauren’s laughter stole our hearts. She was the family’s fruit, as her grandfather lovingly called her.”

Lauren’s potential was limitless. “She might have grown up to be an engineer like her father, or a teacher like her mother. She could have been a beauty icon, but the oppressive machinery of the occupier stole her from us.”

Akram’s heartache pours through his words as he reflects on all the moments he’ll never share with his beloved niece.

Yousef Shahada (5 years old)

Yousef, known for his striking green eyes, was just starting kindergarten when his life was cut short. He was killed along with his mother Du’aa and his only brother Musab, and their father followed them as a martyr ten months later.

Yousef’s mother, devastated by her loss, spoke through tears. “He’s not a number. My son has a name. People must know the names of our martyrs.”

Tala Abu Ajwa (10 years old)

Tala was just a child, joyfully playing outside in her pink roller skates when tragedy struck. Her father, Hussam, recounted the devastating moment: “At 5 p.m., Tala finally convinced her mother to let her go outside. A few minutes later, two massive explosions rocked our building. I rushed downstairs, and the first thing I saw was her pink roller skate, barely visible under the rubble.”

Tala was covered in blood, struggling for her last breath. The pink roller skate, once a symbol of her innocent joy, became a haunting reminder of what the war had taken from her family.

Khaled Al-Shawa (17 years old)

Khaled was riding his bike when he was killed in a targeted attack meant for Al Jazeera journalist Ismail al-Ghoul and cameraman Rami al-Rifi. His mother’s voice cracked as she spoke to Al Jazeera: “He’s not a number. My son has a name, and everyone must know it.”

Khaled wasn’t just a victim of war; he was a boy who cared for his family and neighbors. Every day, he carried food in his backpack to deliver to an elderly neighbor and his injured son, a small act of kindness that now carries the weight of an unimaginable loss.

Ziad Sidam (3 years old)

Ziad was just 3 years old when an Israeli airstrike tore through his family home in the Nuseirat refugee camp. His father, consumed by grief, shared his heart-wrenching final moments. “I tried to protect you, son, but I couldn’t. I did everything I could, but it wasn’t enough.”

As Ziad’s father rushed him to the hospital, he realized his son was dying in the car. “Tell God how scared you were when the bombs fell, Ziad. Tell Him everything, my love. You used to talk about everything.”

These stories are just a fraction of the thousands of children whose lives have been stolen. These children are not numbers. They are stories, memories, and bright futures that Israel has erased. We will continue to say their names, share their stories, and never allow their humanity to be lost in the statistics.

This article is reprinted from the Quds News Network

CrossFireArabia

CrossFireArabia

Dr. Marwan Asmar holds a PhD from Leeds University and is a freelance writer specializing on the Middle East. He has worked as a journalist since the early 1990s in Jordan and the Gulf countries, and been widely published, including at Albawaba, Gulf News, Al Ghad, World Press Review and others.

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Israel Killed Raghad on The Way to School

17-year-old Raghad Hussein Ashour left her home, Monday morning, carrying her books and dreams, heading to an educational center in the Rimal neighborhood of Gaza City. She was preparing for her secondary school exams and clinging to her right to education despite the war, displacement, and destruction that has affected schools and all aspects of life in the Gaza Strip.

But her path to knowledge was cut short. Raghad was killed in an Israeli airstrike that targeted a vehicle in the Rimal neighborhood as she was passing near the site of the attack on her way to the educational center. Her academic dreams turned into a new tragedy reflecting the reality for thousands of students in Gaza.

According to her mother, Raghad was an outstanding student and one of the top performers in her studies. She refused to let the war sever her connection to education.

Read also: Student killed while on her way to take her Tawjihi exam in a bombing in Gaza.

After the destruction of schools and the disruption of the educational process, she had become accustomed to moving between the streets of Gaza and cafes in search of electricity and internet access to continue her studies and complete her assignments.

From Beit Hanoun to Displacement

Raghad comes from the town of Beit Hanoun in the northern Gaza Strip, but she and her mother were forced to flee to Gaza City to escape the relentless bombardment there. They settled in a displacement camp near the Saraya area in the Rimal neighborhood, where the young woman continued her studies amidst extremely difficult humanitarian conditions.

Raghad’s suffering wasn’t solely due to the war; she had been orphaned since childhood, losing her father when she was just two years old. She was raised by her mother, who dedicated her life to her upbringing and care.

As the years passed, the only daughter became her mother’s support and companion in facing life’s burdens and losses.

“Who will replace her?”

Standing before her daughter’s body, the grieving mother was unable to comprehend the magnitude of the tragedy. Her words, heavy with anguish, uttered, “My daughter was my only child… my rose was taken from me in an instant. Who will ever replace her?”

She added bitterly, “I used to move her from place to place during the war so she wouldn’t be taken from me. We slept together on the same pillow.”

The mother recounted years of fear for her only daughter, how she tried to protect her from death during repeated displacements and the harsh days of war, before losing her on her way to school.

In poignant scenes captured in widely circulated videos, the mother embraced her daughter’s body, weeping for dreams unfulfilled. She spoke of the joy of success that awaited her, and the future she had envisioned for her despite all the hardships, before those dreams were extinguished by the bombing.

Her death sparked widespread grief and reactions on social media, where many saw in her story a poignant illustration of the suffering of Gaza’s students who cling to education despite displacement, destruction, and the lack of basic necessities. For some, their books have become the final testament to dreams that were never meant to be fulfilled.

The Israeli occupation forces continue to violate the ceasefire agreement and the end of the war of aggression on the Gaza Strip for the 256th consecutive day. This agreement was signed on October 10, 2015, in Sharm El Sheikh, Egypt, under Arab and American mediation. Sanad news agency

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Meet Karimeh Abbud – First ‘Lady Photographer’ of Palestine

Ahmad Mrowat’s collection

Ahmad Mrowat’s collection

Late Israeli prime minister Golda Meir once unashamedly said the Palestinians don’t exist and Israel was established on empty lands.

It was a view repeated time and again to justify the Israeli occupation of Palestinian lands and their subsequent grab of more Arab territories.

The photographs of Karimeh Abbud (1893-1940), the first Palestinian woman photographer, debunks that view and makes Israelis like Meir eat their words.

Google honoured her legacy by celebrating Abbud’s 123rd birthday with a Google doodle in 2016 two years before this article was first published.

“Abbud captured vast landscapes, many of which don’t exist today. Through her art, we’re able to experience the beauty of these regions as she saw them nearly 100 years ago,” said Google on November 18, 2016. “Thank you, Karimeh, for making art that endures.”

Only upon closer inspection it is clear that the tree is in fact painted on the negative, curving around her head and through her hands

Google also dwelled on her “photographs of family, friends and the surrounding landscape of Bethlehem, Palestine.”

Darat Al Funun of the Khaled Shoman Foundation in Amman presented the first comprehensive exhibition of photographs by Karimeh Abbud in late 2018 to continue January 11, 2019.

Documentary

The exhibition also included a short documentary on Karimeh’s life and work by Mahasen Nasser-Eldin.

Many art critics have commented on the impressive nature of her photography. In a tribute to Abbud Palestinian art critic Tammam Al Akhal said “she is friend of the light and sun… there is an artistic sense of the equilibrium inside her pictures. She was a true artist when taking a photograph.”

Al Akhal was giving a short presentation on the artistic poise in Abbud’s photographs as the Karimeh Abbud Photography Competition Prize was being launched by Dar Al Kalima University College of Arts and Culture in Bethlehem, Palestine, in 2016. The competition has since become an annual event designed to encourage young talent in art, culture and photography.

The Lady Photographer of Palestine

In her time, she established herself amongst the great photographers of the time with Al Akhal referring to her as standing as “tall as the skyscraper.”

Abbud was born in Bethlehem on November 18, 1893, in a Christian family which had settled in Palestine in the latter half of the 19th century. Her father was Said Abbud, an Anglican-Lutheran priest, who used to travel all over Palestine and take Abbud with him wherever he went.

Ivana Peric wrote that when Abbud was little she would accompany her father on his travels to distant places to serve his congregations in Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Haifa and Nazareth “and this constant travel to Palestinian cities and villages allowed [Abbud] to see the diverse landscape of her homeland first-hand. She wanted to see more and capture the beauty she encountered.”

Reverend Mitri Al Raheb — who became a sort of unofficial biographer of Karimeh Abbud and her family — said when he came to Palestine, her father travelled to many places from Gaza in the south to Shaffa Amer in the north and then finally settled in Bethlehem in 1890. However, the family finally put down roots in Nazareth and this is where Abbud grew up, going to primary school there, then to Jerusalem and later to the American University in Beirut where she studied Arabic literature.

However her true passion was photography. She was merely 17 when her father gave her a camera and she started clicking there and then and didn’t stop until her death. She was buried in the Bethlehem Church where her father preached from the early 1900s until 1947 when he retired and left Palestine in January 1948 because of the troubles in Palestine and returned to Marj Ayoun in southern Lebanon where he originally came from.

During this period, however, the second of his six children quickly established herself by becoming a highly competent photographer, competing in a man’s world alongside such old hacks as Khalil Raad, Hanna Safieh and Fadil Saba and a handful of Armenian photographers who dominated the profession.

Ahmad Mrowat, the director of the Nazareth Archive Project devoted to collecting the works of the “Lady Photographer”, said Saba, the local photographer, moved to Haifa in the early 1930s and this made the emerging photographer a household name. He was invited to cover events all over Palestine, including one celebration in Hebron.

Social revolution

Abbud created a social revolution in photography. Unlike the male photographers who worked out of their own studios, Abbud did much more. She had two studios, one in Nazareth where she also had a laboratory for processing the photos and keeping the negatives in a safe place and adding colour to some of them, and a studio in Haifa. However, she visited homes to take photographs of women and children which male photographers could not do.

Abbud went into the homes of well-to-do and middle class families as Al Raheb points out. Increasingly, these people wanted her to come to their homes because of prevailing social constraints that made it inappropriate for them to venture outside their houses, especially to be photographed in studios.

So Abbud photographed women and children at different social occasions, during parties and marriage ceremonies. Her reputation was quickly cemented in the 1920s and 1930s when she took up the profession full time. In Al Carmel, a local newspaper, she advertised herself as “the only national photographer in Palestine [who] learned this beautiful art by well-known photographic personalities and is specialist in the service of women at reasonable prices…”

There are two points here to consider that could actually be inter-related. Jinan Abdo stresses the national element in this advertisement. She states in a 2012 documentary on Abbud made by Mahasen Nasser-Eldin: “when she calls herself a national photographer that feeds into the national context that was present at the time. In the 1920s, after the British Mandate began, Muslim and Christian associations started to counter the idea that we are sectarian groups and not a nation and to support the idea of the unification of our nation, so the rational element was essential and I think we can look at Karimeh through this national context,” Abdo says.

Dr Issam Nassar, an academic at Illinois State University who teaches Middle East history, focuses on the “micro” element in her photography. “Taking portraits in studios at that time required preparations” whilst “in the clients’ homes… it was more relaxing because people felt at ease in their natural sorroundings.”

Hani Hourani, a social science researcher who studied art and photography, says: “If we look at the family and group photos [taken by Karimeh Abbud] the viewer doesn’t see the traditional style of the setting, the background décor and the fixed distribution of light but the onlooker sees such marked diversity in all these elements.

“The home was an opportunity for more improvisation and diversity in the styles captured by the photo leading many to suggest Karimeh Abbud was a non-traditional photographer calling for change in the way she clicked photos.”

Abbud’s photographs on show at Darat Al Funun were recently acquired accidentally after much cajoling.

Mrowat answered an advertisement placed in an Arab newspaper by an antiquarian Jewish collector named Boki Boazz calling for more information about Karimeh Abbud. That was in 2006.

Mrowat says at first the collector was not willing to divulge any information but after being pressed, it turned out that he had 4,000 photographs which he got hold of in one of the houses in the Qatamon district in Jerusalem after their owners fled in 1948; the photographs, he adds were of Karimeh Abbud because her name was initialled on each of the photographs — the first signed picture postcard belonging to her was dated October 1919.

Mrowat says his heart was set on obtaining the collection which he felt were a very important part of Palestinian heritage, finally persuading Boazz to give up his collection by offering him an old edition of the Torah printed in the Palestinian city of Safad in 1860.

The photos on show form only a part of the collection at Darat Al Funun and are only a fraction of the huge number of photographs said to number 9,000 still believed to be in the possession of the Israeli army as an article in the Haaretz newspaper stated.

The photos present a narrative of the Palestinian society and travel before 1948. Abbud took photos of cities and villages that flourished in the early part of the 20th century.

It was easy for Abbud to get around, Mrowat says, as she was probably the first woman to have an automobile and a driving licence in Palestine and the Arab world. She used to travel frequently to photograph Bethlehem, Jerusalem, Tiberias and Haifa. Many photos were taken of beaches, markets, mosques and churches, providing a unique glimpse of Palestinian life.

Mrowat, Dr Nassar and others suggest she would act, at times, as a tour guide, accompanying visitors to many tourist locations including the Jordan River and Yarmouk River as well as many other places. In between these, she was interested also in photographing the daily lives of Palestinian women, the different stitches they would make as they embroidered their garments which represented different villages, farming, women carrying water and wood as well as other scenes in both the countryside and in towns and cities.

Nassar puts it in another way when he says that Abbud was able to bring out the human aspects of the personalities she was photographing and this added value to her work and individuality because she succeeded in preserving the modesty and humanity of the Palestinian existence “through what professional photographers call the “aura” of the photograph and its phantasmical imagination.”

Al Akhal agrees, saying this is why Abbud’s photographs surpassed time. It was the “professionalism”, “creativity” and “high quality” that produced good negatives and in turn excellent photographs that “allowed her work to continue to be seen long after,” she says. “Through these pictures she [Karimeh Abbud] talks to us in silence, we build a dialogue with her, become friendly with her and construct strong relations with her.”

Through her images, Abbud provided a pictorial documentation of Palestinian life.

Nasser-Eldin, also coordinator of the the Karimeh Abbud Photograph Competition Prize, says “Abbud started what we can call ‘documentary photography’ documenting the lives of people through her studios and through her movement in the country carrying her bulky tripod and her camera wherever she went.

“Through her lens we got to know the forms of Palestinians living in Palestine before 1948. Her photos give us a change concept, a new picture of windows and images of Palestine and Palestinians, totally different from the pictures of orientalists who showed our country [Palestine] was empty of people and/or showed images of people spread out and not as an integrated community with civilisation and culture living in towns and cities and in modernity at that time,” Nasser Eldin added.

Her photos were well-taken and are a vital part of history, so at various times Israel has sought to adopt her as one of its own. This is what one book, published in 2011, titled Karimeh Abbud: Israeli Portrait and Wedding Photography by Monica Millian tried to do. Many have questioned its credibility as it is primarily sourced from Wikipedia and other online resources.

It can easily be understood why Israel would want to “cash in” on such an historic cultural figure, but Abbud is a Palestinian through and through as judged by historical evidence.

Marwan Asmar is a commentator based in Amman. He has long worked in journalism and has a Phd in Political Science from Leeds University in the UK. This article originally written for and appeared in Gulf News and is now reprinted in crossfirearabia.com.

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