In Gaza, childbirth has become a struggle for survival rather than a moment of celebration. Women give birth in makeshift tents, on worn cloth, surrounded by hunger, darkness and the constant hum of drones above. What should be a cry of life is now silenced by fear, fear that a newborn might not survive the night, or that the next airstrike could erase an entire family before the child’s eyes ever open to the world.

Mothers recount stories of delivering babies on the bare ground, assisted only by fellow displaced women or doctors without tools. One mother described cradling her twins through the night, terrified that their weak cries might fade away as she fought to keep them warm with nothing but her arms. Another recalled the terror of labour at dawn, while drones circled above, the tent trembling with every nearby strike. For her, every minute felt like a lifetime, torn between the fear of dying in childbirth and the fear of losing her baby before even holding her.

Doctors working in displacement camps say they witness scenes that no medical training could prepare them for, newborns delivered without sterile equipment, mothers weakened by malnutrition, women arriving alone after losing their husbands. Clinics stripped of basic supplies operate in near darkness, while power cuts and shortages of medicine turn every birth into a gamble. Yet even in these conditions, women continue to endure, their resilience shining through the suffering.

The stories of these mothers capture the brutal reality of life under siege. They dreamt of colourful rooms, warm celebrations, and joyful cries. Instead, they are forced to welcome their children into tents filled with hunger, mosquitoes, and grief. Each birth is both a miracle and a reminder of a generation born under fire, where the first breath of life is shadowed by the constant threat of death.