How the world failed Ryan and Yaman

I woke up beneath the rubble, surrounded by darkness, dust, collapsed concrete and the screams of my six-year-old son Nasser crying hysterically above the ruins, trying to reach my buried fingers.

What I did not yet know was that a part of me had already died.

When I emerged, I discovered that my 51-day-old baby Ryan had been recovered lifeless after spending more than an hour trapped under the debris. He was a child born during a temporary “ceasefire” in the war. Life had briefly granted him permission to see the world before taking him away almost immediately.

His body was so small that I wrapped him in part of my own clothing, afraid he would feel cold.

I was told Yaman, my seven-year-old, had suffered only minor injuries and had been taken to the hospital. The truth, however, was that my little boy had died before reaching it. They brought him back to me lifeless, only moments after I had bid farewell to Ryan.

On that winter day in January 2024 on the outskirts of Gaza City, my whole world was shattered.

Like countless mothers in Gaza, I had feared hunger for my children. I had feared displacement, terror and interrupted education. But despite everything, I never dared to think of death.

Ryan never had the chance to grow up and enjoy his childhood. He was denied the chance to run, play and laugh with his brothers.