While cities across the world sink into peaceful slumber, Gaza prepares for another night of anguish. In this narrow, battered strip of land, darkness is not a pause—it is a sentence. When the sun sets, families brace for the thud of missiles and the roar of drones, with no safe shelter to run to, no electricity, and no promise of dawn.

In homes turned into graves of silence and fear, parents whisper prayers over their sleeping children. Some children don’t speak anymore. Others lie awake in the shadows, guarding siblings while clutching their fears. For many, the terror is so consuming that their young hearts give in—not to wounds, but to fear itself.

Night after night, stories pour out of Gaza like silent cries. A mother in Shujaiya counts her children after each explosion. A father in Rafah watches his daughter flinch at every hum overhead. A ten-year-old girl says she no longer dreams of playing, only of flying away.

Medical staff say they’ve treated children for shock, not from what they've seen—but from what they feared might happen. Some arrive with no visible injuries, yet their lives slip away from sheer panic. In Gaza, it’s not unusual for a child to die without a scratch on their body.

Mental health professionals warn of a tidal wave of trauma. But Gaza’s healthcare system, already decimated, cannot respond. There is only one psychiatric hospital for two million people. Clinics run out of medicine, and counsellors are few. Grief is a daily companion, but treatment is a distant hope.

Still, Gazans endure. They sing lullabies to calm the trembling. They hold each other through the horror. And they wait—for a ceasefire, for justice, for the world to remember that their children deserve peace, too.