Babies at the Age of Genocide: Gaza’s Babies After Two Years of War

By Malak Radwan

During the chaos of war, a generation learned its first rhythms not from a mother’s heartbeat but from the pounding fear of explosions. They are the children of ashes, born into a world where the sky signals terror rather than light. For these young souls, the lullaby of life has become the siren’s wail and the drone of planes; their cradle is a landscape of rubble. The Gaza Government Media Office estimates that about 80,200 children have taken their first breath under this shadow of genocide, their entire existence shaped by a disaster they did not witness but which has marked them forever.

Children Born During the Genocide

Their childhood begins with loss. Instead of bright, sunny rooms, they grow up in crowded, scared shelters and tents. Their building blocks are not colorful plastic toys but gray, dusty remnants of what was once a home. Their playgrounds are fields of destruction. They learn life’s language through the grammar of loss, with their innocence caught in a silent battle against memories of destruction.

Among them is Ayloul Abu al-Qomsan, a year and a half old, bearing scars that tell of a lifetime. Her story reflects the personal trauma this generation endures. The war started while she was still in her mother’s womb; a safe space violently shattered when their home was destroyed in a massacre that claimed hundreds of lives. Before she could see, she inhaled the bitter smoke of rockets and explosive barrels. Instead of a sterile, caring hospital environment, she was born into the chaos of a shelter in Jabalia camp.

Her first nourishment was not just milk but the bitter taste of a famine inflicted on the north. The first sounds she heard were not soft whispers of family but the relentless march of Israeli tanks and the earth-shaking roar of shelling. Now, her nights are haunted by fear so deep it needs no immediate cause. Her mother recalls:

“She wakes suddenly, crying from nightmares she can’t name, sometimes even fleeing the sound of a loving voice.”

Ayloul’s mother also notes that her most common remark is mimicking a fire belt: “boom, boom, boom.” Her brothers, just a year and a half older, focus on waiting for the community kitchen. Living in displacement, they lack the luxury of preparing or enjoying meals. They have become knowledgeable about all kinds of aviation, often talking about drones, especially when a quadcopter hovers in the sky.

Malik Abu Shamala has been an orphan since he was in his mother’s womb. His father was murdered while she was four months pregnant with him. He never experienced any part of childhood that his brother Ibrahim had before the genocidal war. His mother observes:

“Whenever we hear planes or explosions, he has crying fits and panic attacks if I am not nearby.”

She adds that Ibrahim, now two years and eight months old, distinguishes between the sound of a drone and a warplane. When bombing occurs, he says, “Don’t be afraid, this is far away.” Malik, just a year and a half old, often repeats his brother’s words: “Don’t go out, there is bombing outside.” These are thoughts no child this age should carry.

Psychological Effects

War records its memories not through treaties but in the souls of children. In Gaza, a deep psychological siege continues long after the bombs go silent. Local and international studies depict childhoods shaped by post-traumatic stress: nightmares, regression, and withdrawal from the world. For those born into chaos, fear forms a core part of life. Their small bodies act as barometers of terror, flinching at the slam of a door or the hum of a vehicle. Innocent sounds transform into preludes to death. Beyond fear lies the silence of loss; many carry hollow spaces where parents once stood, expressing grief through endless tears or stillness.

The mother of three-year-old Rita Al-Qassas says:

“Rita reacts strongly to the sound of Israeli warplanes. She always runs to me or my mom to hide, even if we are all around her. She believed the plane would bomb our house, so she kept talking about it.”

Haneen Al-Madhoun, mother of a two-year-old, shared her fears:

“As a mother, I fear how this war affects my son’s psyche and personality. I sense he has become timid; even the quietest sound makes him run for a hug. I worry about depriving him of home and stability, about his uncertain future. I fear he won’t get enough love and tenderness.”

She continues:

“His first words weren’t ‘mam’ or ‘dad,’ but fragments of a childhood shattered by war. He would say things like, ‘A plane, gunfire… hide from the bombing,’ or ask desperately, ‘Is there any piece of bread?’”

Loss of Childhood Innocence

Their innocence was not lost but stolen, replaced by a language of survival. These children never learned the simple rules of joy: the bright syntax of a balloon, the festive punctuation of a holiday. Instead, their first questions became lessons in loss: Will we return to our home? Will we stay in the tent? Is my father in heaven? Their world is defined not by playgrounds but by the harsh landscape of displacement: the edges of a tent, lines for water trucks, small portions from community kitchens.  They recognize and name martyrs and the wounded with chilling clarity before learning the alphabet.

For three-year-old Rita Al-Qassas, home was not concrete walls but the worn fabric of a tent in southern Gaza. When the first ceasefire allowed her family to return to their original home, her mother remembers:

“As soon as we got back, she didn’t accept the house right away. She cried for a week and said, ‘Let’s go back to the tent.’ Eventually, she adapted.”

With this second displacement, she rejected the idea of the tent and wondered why we would go back to it while we were sitting at home.

Hanin Al-Madhoun described her son’s early words:
“He carries a cushion perched on his small shoulder, and in a soft yet solemn voice, he says, ‘The martyr, beloved by God.'”
She explained: “These are not lullabies or nursery rhymes but war and survival. He learned about martyrs and funerals, about the weight of loss, far beyond his years. There are no brightly colored blocks or plush animals. His play reflects shelling and the harsh realities around him.”

“His first words weren’t ‘mam’ or ‘dad,’ but fragments of a childhood shattered by war. He would say things like, ‘A plane, gunfire… hide from the bombing,’ or ask desperately, ‘Is there any piece of bread?’”

-Haneen al Madhoun (a mother of a 2-year-old)

What Should We Do?

Hadeel Abed, psychologist at the Women’s Center for Affairs, explains:

“We help children overcome the psychological and behavioral symptoms they developed during the war using cognitive behavioral therapy. We work on the information stored in their minds and reprocess behaviors through expertise.”

She adds:

“Children now confuse tents with home and struggle to adapt to normal life. Their vocabulary includes war terms, and their thoughts revolve around survival: ‘fill up the water,’ ‘get food from the community kitchen,’ ‘I don’t want to die.’”

She emphasizes:

“Enrolling children in educational programs teaches discipline and basic responsibilities. It helps place them in a safe environment while promoting psychological support and social guidance.”