They walk barefoot through the wreckage – children carrying children, small arms wrapped around younger siblings, holding on to what’s left of their family.
In Gaza, there is no safety, no silence, no pause. There is only motion: fleeing, burying, fleeing again. Bombs chase them through the territory. Tanks stalk them in alleys. Drones hum overhead, watching, waiting to strike.
We’ve seen their faces. Some are covered in ash, too stunned to cry; others scream names into the dust – names that no longer answer. Children, entirely alone, wander from one grave to the next.
Many no longer even have names, just markers – a number, a label scrawled in pen on their arm so that if they die, someone might know who they were.
And still, they are hunted.
Read more: Palestinian children are the future. That’s why Israel is killing them
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