In Gaza City, beneath the wreckage of a shattered home and a broken nation, lies the story of Alaa Al-Arabeed—a 28-year-old mother who woke up in a hospital bed to find herself the only surviving member of her family. Her husband and four daughters were killed in an Israeli airstrike that levelled their apartment building in the early hours of the morning. It is a story that captures not just the personal grief of one woman, but the collective agony of a people living under siege.

The strike hit just after 2:00 AM, when the skies over Gaza lit up with the now-familiar sound of warplanes and explosions. The Andalusia Tower, a residential block in the heart of the city, was flattened. Alaa’s father, Hajj Mahmoud Al-Arabeed—known to many as Abu Muhammad—rushed to call her when he heard the news. She didn’t answer. He ran to Al-Shifa Hospital, fearing the worst. “I searched among the martyrs,” he said, his voice trembling. “Then a doctor told me, ‘She’s injured, not a martyr.’” But hope quickly turned to heartbreak. Her four daughters—Maha (12), Mira (10), Joanna (8), and Layan (4)—along with her husband Mahmoud, had all been killed.

Inside the hospital morgue, Abu Muhammad found himself doing what no parent or grandparent should ever have to do—identifying the bodies of his loved ones. Instead of Eid clothes, the children wore burial shrouds. He laid them to rest with his own hands, each small grave a monument to stolen dreams. “They were just kids,” he whispered, recalling how they would laugh and race to hug him. “Now, all I have is their memory.”

Alaa is still unconscious, lying in critical condition at Al-Shifa. She has severe head injuries, shrapnel wounds, amputated fingers, and damage to one of her eyes. She hasn’t yet been told that her entire world has been taken from her. “When she wakes up, she asks about her daughters,” her father says, barely able to speak the words. “I tell her they’re at home. How do I tell her the truth?”

Just days before the strike, the family had been making plans for Mira’s 10th birthday. Balloons were bought, invites sent, and for a brief moment, there was something to look forward to. Now, 18 March will be remembered not for cake and candles, but as the day Mira was martyred. “They were a loving family,” Abu Muhammad said. “My daughter lived for her girls. Mahmoud was a kind man, a good father. They didn’t deserve this.”

It’s believed that Alaa survived because she fell onto a mattress during the collapse—a small mercy amid the horror. Her father sees it as divine will. “Allah spared her,” he says. “But now, she has to carry the weight of this loss.”

Alaa’s story is just one among thousands. Entire families have been erased in what Palestinians increasingly call a genocide by the Israeli occupation. These are not accidents, not statistics—these are lives. Names. Stories. Birthdays that never came. In the ruins of Gaza, grief is everywhere. And still, for those like Abu Muhammad, there is no time to grieve properly—only the heavy task of surviving, of waiting, of wondering how to tell a mother that her children are gone.