My son whimpers in the dark of the night and I stir awake as his soft sounds swell into cries. It’s my turn to comfort him. Is he teething? I grab the Tylenol from the nightstand before heading over to his crib // How do the mothers and fathers in Gaza comfort the aching gums of little ones? Do the small pains stop aching when larger aches take over? An empty belly? A fresh surgical wound with no morphine?
An hour passes and my arms begin to ache as I rock my son back and forth, back and forth // I once watched a video of a mother carrying all three of her children as she crossed into Rafah, her face laced with a sort of brokenness and steel conviction I couldn’t name.
Two hours now and my eyes droop with sleep. How much longer before I can climb back into bed? // A mother cradled a little shroud for hours, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. How heavy are the shrouds of children when it’s the last time you hold them?
Holding my son, gently shushing him, I walk downstairs, the smooth wood cool beneath my feet, and increase the temperature on the thermostat. I hear the sound of thunder as rain pelts against our windows // There is no temperature control in plastic tents, no flooring, no roof. How can thin plastic protect them from what falls from the skies — rain, and otherwise?
I pour milk in his bottle and heat it up, praying a full belly might help him sleep. My son grabs the bottle with both hands and pulls it into his mouth, and I’m filled with gratitude when I watch his eager eyes, knowing he is satisfied // There’s no milk left in Gaza, how do the mothers stifle the cries of their starving babies? How is the world not burning?
I gently walk back upstairs as he nuzzles into me, seeking my warmth and drifts off to sleep, the white noise machine a constant hum as I enter the room // How do the children sleep with the sound of drones as a constant, teasing, malicious, merciless hum?
I gently place him in the crib, moving his soft brown hair from his forehead // A mother came into the hospital asking for her son, her boy with the light brown curls. The doctor empathetically shook his head no. The sound of her screams echoing through my phone still haunts me.
I almost climb back into bed when I hear my daughter running from her room to me, her feet padding the floor hurriedly. My tired arms stop her mid-run // Children were running and playing when a missile hit them. Who fires a missile on running, playing children?
She falls into me, her eyes still closed, her messy hair tumbling over her face. Normally we would gently send her back to her room, but tonight I’m thankful for her cuddles as she finds her rightful place in the middle of our bed // “We will meet Allah SWT together,” a father said, pulling his family close as they slept.
My daughter sprawls in bed and her eyes close as she drifts off to sleep, her ponytail crumples under her // A father stroked the ponytail of his lifeless daughter. “She was alive just a moment ago. Please check her pulse again,” he pleads to the doctors, as if this must be a terrible mistake. I still remember the color of her ribbons. Blue. My daughter’s favorite color these days. The color of my son’s onesie tonight.
I gently move my daughter’s legs aside so I can find my place at the edge of the bed // A cart once used to deliver produce leaves for the hospital with injured children sprawled, limbs moved aside to make room for others.
My husband, in his sleep, pulls the blanket over our daughter so she doesn’t get cold // A father was digging through the dirt and rubble with his bare hands, looking for his children. “They must be so cold, so scared,” he wept.
Tears roll down my face as I whisper du’aas helplessly and in a panic I pull out my phone to look at pictures of my children smiling, missing them already, though I hear their silent snores in the room // “I finally decided to delete all his pictures from my phone,” a mother with lifeless eyes told the camera, months after her baby boy was gone.
They’re alive, my children are alive, their hearts are beating, I tell myself reassuringly, both guilty and grateful. They’re alive, they’re alive, alhamdulillah they’re alive. Their breaths coat my aching heart // Some would give anything to hear that sound again.
Forgive us, Ya Allah. Forgive us // “Please forgive us, forgive us my child, forgive us,” the parents say through tears. “We will meet you soon, insha’Allah.”
How is the whole world not spinning out of equilibrium at their cries? How have we gone so wrong? How has humanity withered away? How can we not see ourselves in them and break over and over and over again? // “Hasbi Allahu wa ni’mal wakeel.”
