In a small tent in northern Gaza, young Salma Obeid sits quietly, her face marked by burns and shrapnel wounds, her childhood shattered by an Israeli airstrike that killed her parents, brother, and most of her extended family. Only she and her sister Hala survived the attack that devastated their home in Jabalia refugee camp.

Now under the care of their uncle, Mohammed Obeid, the two sisters are struggling to rebuild the fragments of a life stolen too soon. Hala suffers from a skull injury; Salma, from invisible wounds even deeper than those on her skin.

“The bombing happened, and my mum, dad, brother, uncles, grandfather, grandmother, all of them were killed,” Salma whispered. “Only my sister and I made it out alive. I miss them so much. I just wish I could see them again.”

Their aunt Heba, now a constant presence in their lives, tries to ease their pain through simple routines, washing clothes, preparing food, holding them close. With the help of a psychological specialist, Salma is slowly emerging from a state of deep withdrawal.

“She was silent for weeks,” Heba recalls. “Now, she’s beginning to adapt, little by little. But nothing will ever make her whole again.”

Mohammed does what he can, but says no gesture can replace the warmth of a mother’s embrace or the steady love of a father. “She still asks about them every day, asks when they’ll come back.”

Salma’s story is not unique in Gaza. It is a haunting reflection of the war’s toll on a generation of children, children who bury their families, survive airstrikes, and carry wounds that may never heal.