In Gaza’s labyrinth of makeshift shelters and broken homes, children with autism face a kind of torment the world rarely sees. For them, life depends on predictability, on the quiet rhythm of familiar routines. But when the bombs fell and the power lines snapped, that fragile structure vanished. The war, incomprehensible to them, has left deep scars on their senses and minds.

Inside a crowded tent in Deir al-Balah, a mother tries to calm her twelve-year-old son, whose world was once painted in soft blue tones. The room that kept him safe is now rubble, and every sudden noise ignites panic. “He keeps asking for his room,” she whispers. “He screams until he’s exhausted. The sounds, the shouting, the sirens, it’s too much for him.” Like thousands of displaced families, they are trapped in an environment that is the exact opposite of what children on the autism spectrum need: a place of calm and routine.

Therapy centres that once offered stability have been destroyed, their staff displaced or killed. Medication is almost impossible to find. Mothers recount nights when their children cry until dawn, unable to cope with the sensory chaos of explosions and overcrowding. Many have lost the ability to speak or communicate, their silence deepening as the war drags on. Specialists warn that without urgent intervention, the long-term damage could be irreversible.

For Gaza’s autistic children, the war is not just an assault on their surroundings, it is a dismantling of their very sense of order. Each explosion fractures their inner world, each moment of fear rewires the fragile peace they once knew. Their screams are often drowned out by the noise of a conflict that has stolen their voices. And in the stillness that follows, silence itself becomes the loudest cry.