In Gaza, where silence follows every explosion, children are growing up in the shadows of absence. They are not just survivors, they are the remnants of families wiped out, the last heartbeat of homes that no longer exist. In place of lullabies, they fall asleep to the sound of grief. In place of play, they carry burdens far too heavy for their years.

Among them is Ruqayya, eight years old, clinging to a torn doll in a makeshift tent. Her mother’s last words still echo in her mind. Her sister is gone, her father missing, and she speaks into the night hoping someone, anyone, might answer. Then there’s Yahya, just 13, who has become both father and brother to three siblings. He sells crackers in the streets and wipes away their tears, his own pushed aside to survive one more day.

Doaa, at only 11, has lost 14 family members. She now lives among strangers, craving not toys or sweets, but something no aid truck can bring: a single photo of her parents, wiped away along with their home.

According to Palestinian authorities, Gaza is facing the largest orphan crisis in modern history. Tens of thousands of children have lost one or both parents, many having watched their families vanish in the blink of an airstrike. Israel’s relentless targeting of residential homes has obliterated entire family trees, leaving only scattered survivors.

These children are not just grieving. They are hungry, homeless, and deeply traumatised. The world may see statistics, but here in Gaza, each orphan is a name, a face, and a story cut short. And yet, in the wreckage, they continue, holding onto the memory of love, even as the world forgets.