Sara was just ten years old when the bomb fell. Walking beside her father, hand in hand, she had no idea that moment would shatter everything she knew, her family, her body, her childhood.

When the strike hit, her father was killed instantly. Sara was thrown to the ground, unconscious. She awoke in a hospital missing both arms. Her abdomen had been torn open. Her life, as her mother says, was cut in half.

Now, she eats with her feet. She tries to draw again. She watches other children play, run, scribble in notebooks, and she tries to learn how to be a child without hands. Her grief is wordless, but her eyes speak of a pain deeper than any wound. “Feet can never replace hands,” her mother says, holding back tears.

Gaza is full of children like Sara, torn from the safety of their families, maimed, orphaned, or killed. Over 16,500 children have died since October. Thousands more have been wounded, starved, traumatised. They are not collateral damage. They are the centre of a war that has stripped innocence of meaning.

And yet, even in the wreckage, Sara dreams, not just of prosthetic arms, but of a future where she can draw again, write her name, and reclaim what was stolen. In Gaza, the smallest dreams are acts of resistance.