For six years, Zainab al-Mohammad has been undergoing treatment for leukemia. Yet despite the inherent hardship of her illness, the experience has grown increasingly difficult amid the irregular availability of medication, forcing her in recent months to purchase it at her own expense more often than not.

Like Zainab, cancer patients across Syria are grappling with mounting challenges in securing treatment. A shortage of essential drugs has escalated from a medical concern into a full-blown emergency within a healthcare system already strained by weakened infrastructure, a lack of basic equipment, and mounting pressure on the few operational centers.

Costly and Scarce Treatment

Zainab’s ordeal began seven years ago. A native of Damascus, she was diagnosed with chronic myeloid leukemia after doctors observed significant enlargement of both her liver and spleen particularly the latter, which had swollen to nearly three times its normal size. A treatment plan was outlined during the first year, though it did not begin immediately.

Speaking to Noon Post, Zainab—who receives care at Al-Biruni Hospital—recalled suffering from persistent fever. Initially, she believed she might be pregnant. However, after undergoing multiple tests, including blood smears and two bone marrow biopsies, she was diagnosed with leukemia, marking the start of her chemotherapy journey.

Unable to receive intravenous treatment, she instead relied on oral medication. In the past, she explained, the drug was intermittently available sometimes disappearing for one or two months, with the longest interruption lasting three months before supplies resumed.

But the situation has deteriorated significantly since the fall of the former regime. Since then, she has received the medication from the hospital only once, forcing her to purchase it independently the rest of the time. Its cost ranging between 800,000 and 850,000 Syrian pounds (depending on exchange rates) has made it prohibitively expensive.

Zainab added that she is often unable to afford the medication and has turned to numerous charities for assistance. Most, however, have been unable to help, leaving her without a consistent source of support for either treatment or necessary medical tests.

The financial burden extends beyond medication. The PCR test required every six months is particularly expensive and must be paid for out of pocket due to the high cost of materials and their unavailability in hospitals. Meanwhile, the monthly complete blood count (CBC) test is available at the hospital at a cost of around 35,000 Syrian pounds.

Even so, PCR tests remain entirely patient-funded, and the medication remains both costly and scarce. Zainab noted that she has been purchasing it herself for over a year. While shortages existed before the country’s “liberation,” obtaining the drug was never this difficult, she said.

A Long-Standing, Escalating Crisis

On a broader level, Syria’s cancer drug shortage is not new, though it became particularly visible in March 2025 when the Ministry of Health through Zuhair Qarat, Director of Planning and International Cooperation appealed to the international community for support.

At a press conference, Qarat confirmed that Syria is facing a severe shortage of oncology medications, describing the situation as both a health and humanitarian crisis affecting one of the most vulnerable segments of society.

He called on the United Nations, the World Health Organization, UNICEF, EU humanitarian funds, allied nations, and international NGOs to provide the necessary pharmaceutical support to sustain cancer treatment, stressing the need to ease international restrictions that hinder the import of medicines.

For his part, Jamil al-Dabl, head of the National Advisory Committee for Blood and Oncology, stated that the Ministry of Health currently has only 20 percent of the actual required supply for certain cancer drugs, while stocks for other types have been completely depleted warning of a looming health catastrophe affecting both children and adults.

The crisis stems from a complex web of factors, including economic sanctions, deteriorating living conditions, political and military upheavals over more than a decade, damage to the healthcare system, difficulty in securing medications, and hospitals’ limited capacity to deliver essential services.

These conditions leave patients facing stark choices: discontinue treatment due to lack of medication or resort to less effective alternatives both of which can lead to worsening health outcomes and rising mortality rates.

Beyond Drug Shortages

The cancer crisis in Syria extends beyond medication shortages, reflecting broader systemic weaknesses in oncology care. This is underscored in a report by the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA), conducted under its imPACT Review program in collaboration with the World Health Organization and the International Agency for Research on Cancer.

The report highlights the extensive damage inflicted on Syria’s cancer care system by years of conflict, resulting in diminished capacity to provide comprehensive diagnostic and treatment services.

It notes that inconsistent access to medication disrupts chemotherapy schedules and prevents some patients from completing treatment protocols. Significant regional disparities in access further undermine patients’ chances of recovery and survival.

Additionally, the report points to shortages in equipment, laboratories, and medical technologies, alongside deficiencies in diagnostic tools, radiotherapy, and nuclear medicine capabilities. A lack of specialized oncology and radiotherapy personnel further strains the limited number of functioning centers, leading to delays and uneven quality of care.

The report warns that cancer incidence and mortality rates are likely to rise between 2020 and 2030, driven by weak early detection programs and the frequent diagnosis of cases at advanced stages making treatment more difficult and increasing reliance on medication.

It also highlights deficiencies in cancer registries, national data collection, and evidence-based planning, complicating efforts to accurately assess the scale of the crisis or develop effective policies to address it.

Although the last comprehensive assessment of Syria’s cancer care system dates back to 2021, updates from the IAEA in 2024 and 2025 indicate that the same challenges persist, with growing emphasis on improving diagnostics and treatment through initiatives such as “Rays of Hope.”

While the IAEA has announced expanded cooperation with Syria to support cancer care and equip hospitals with training and equipment, local hospitals continue to face daily shortages of even the most basic treatment necessities from medication to advanced diagnostic tools.

This disconnect between international plans and on-the-ground realities creates a clear gap in oncology care, where patients’ access to treatment depends more on the availability of drugs and resources than on stable treatment protocols.

Grassroots Efforts to Fill the Gap

Amid this landscape, grassroots initiatives have emerged to bridge part of the gap. Among them is the “Friends of Cancer Patients – Syria” campaign, which notes that current assistance is largely limited to modest financial support due to the high cost of treatment and the difficulty of covering all cases.

Munif Abazid, the campaign’s communications and survey officer, told Noon Post that cancer treatment can require doses costing thousands of dollars, making any expansion of aid dependent on substantial funding beyond current capabilities.

He explained that a specialized medical committee within the campaign prioritizes the most urgent cases to ensure fair distribution of assistance particularly given that some patients receive partial coverage from other organizations while others receive none, creating disparities in access to treatment.

Abazid identified funding as the campaign’s greatest challenge, noting that adequate resources would allow for the import of medications from abroad when unavailable locally—an urgent need given the acute shortages of certain drugs despite partial provision by official bodies.

He linked the campaign’s emergence directly to the crisis, as some patients have been forced to purchase treatment themselves, while others manage to secure support through institutions or organizations such as SAMS.

He also pointed to alternative coping mechanisms adopted by patients, including reliance on informal networks to obtain medication or the exchange of drugs among patients and the families of deceased or recovered individuals an indication of the immense strain on the healthcare system and the ongoing nature of the crisis.

Between limited grassroots campaigns and repeated official appeals for support, the suffering of cancer patients in Syria remains suspended, awaiting urgent solutions to the drug shortage sustained by a fragile hope that their voices will be heard and that their treatment can continue before their conditions deteriorate further.

Heavy days weigh on the families of thousands of Palestinian prisoners held in Israeli prisons. Until midweek, their fears centered on torture especially amid mounting reports of dire detention conditions and the harrowing testimonies of released detainees, accounts so severe they are almost beyond belief.

But following the passage of the “death penalty for prisoners” law, their fear has escalated to an even darker level as if what remained was to imagine their loved ones’ necks in the noose.

Under the law passed by the Knesset last Monday, the “crime” punishable by death appears narrowly defined and limited to prisoners meeting specific criteria. Yet families place little faith in either the law or those who enacted it. They fear it may serve as a prelude to mass executions that could ultimately include their sons.

Tears from the Next Room

Outwardly, Aya Mahdi carried on as if nothing had changed scrolling through Facebook, reacting to posts, and watching videos. But inside, she was burning. She is not only the wife of a prisoner; she is also a mother striving to remain composed before her children after they caught wind of the news.

Speaking to Noon Post, she said: “When I read the news, I felt my limbs freeze with fear, and my heart pound as if it would stop. But I didn’t have the luxury of fully processing my anxiety.”

“I tried to hide the news from my four children (aged 3 to 12), but soon I heard my two eldest daughters crying from the next room,” she added.

Their questions came in different forms but carried the same meaning: “Does the execution apply to Dad?” She explained, “I had to act like a mother—so I suppressed my fear and showed indifference. The girls believed me and went to sleep.”

Aya’s husband, Basel, was arrested in November 2023 at a checkpoint separating northern and southern Gaza while the family was fleeing south.

She believes her husband has done nothing that would warrant execution under the new law. Yet she is equally convinced that the Israeli occupation is brutal it needs no justification, and nothing prevents it from executing all prisoners if it chooses, she said.

“Since talk of the law began, I never believed it would actually pass. I thought some party would intervene to stop it. So the news struck me like a lightning bolt and devastated me psychologically.”

Despite the fear and grim reality, hope persists. “Al-Aqsa Mosque has been closed and Islamic countries have not acted. I doubt anyone will move for prisoners who sacrificed their freedom. But even if I lose hope in worldly causes, I do not lose hope in God. I draw strength from my faith and continue to pray. My husband also sent word through his lawyer, praying that God grant me strength in his absence.”

No Charges—Yet I Still Fear

“My son is a nurse. He treated people. Is that a crime that warrants arrest? Why should I fear for his life? Shouldn’t he be released immediately?” asks Jamal Al-Jaish, reflecting on the law and its toll on prisoners’ families.

His son, Majed, was arrested in March 2023 from Al-Shifa Hospital in Gaza while performing his humanitarian duty as a nurse.

In his interview with Noon Post, Jamal said: “The Israeli occupation renews Majed’s administrative detention every six months. He still faces no charges, which should mean there’s no reason to fear for him but we are deeply worried. He is in the hands of an occupying power that acts as it pleases.”

“I worry about all prisoners and pray the death penalty is not applied to any of them. My son is no more precious than anyone else’s,” he added.

Describing his wife’s condition after the law’s approval, he said: “This law has only deepened a sorrow that has not ceased since his arrest. She cries constantly at every moment, with every memory. As for me, I have nothing but prayer. In every prayer, I ask God to return him to me.”

Majed, 26, suffers from health issues and harsh prison conditions, according to his father, who refuses to appeal to any authority. He is convinced that the world has left Palestine and its prisoners alone to face the brutality of the Israeli occupation.

Adding Insult to Injury

A year passed after the arrest of Walid Musbah before he could complete treatment for leukemia. Naturally, he has not received treatment in prison, leaving his health in a fragile state, according to his family via his lawyer.

His wife, Tasneem, said: “We live an extremely difficult life. Our thoughts are consumed by him, and anxiety eats away at us whenever we hear of abuses against prisoners. We wonder what he is enduring and constantly mourn his absence. This was our reality even before the death penalty law so what now?”

“The law has only made things worse, pouring salt into a deep wound that will not heal except with my husband’s freedom,” she added.

“When we heard the news, all we could do was cry and pray. There is nothing we can do to bring our loved ones back.”

Tasneem, a mother of two boys aged 10 and 12, does everything she can to shield them from such news especially the death penalty law. “Their sadness over their father’s arrest is already enough,” she said.

“I don’t know how to process this. My mind is torn between thinking about my husband and his fate, and managing life without him and the heavy responsibilities I carry. I cannot bear to imagine harm coming to him. I want him beside me, sharing life’s burdens.”

She added: “His illness only heightens our anxiety, especially since we know nothing about his condition. But I trust his spirit is strong he has a resilient character and always accepts God’s will.”

Tasneem believes international silence has emboldened the Israeli occupation to pass the law, leaving little hope for global intervention. “There is nothing to rely on except divine justice,” she said.

Holding on to Prayer

When Louay Hassouneh was arrested in November 2024, he was just 18. His young age only deepens his family’s anxiety. They wonder how he endures the horrors described by other prisoners and how he has received news of the law.

His father, Imad Hassouneh, told Noon Post: “Even if my son weren’t imprisoned, this law would have shaken me with grief for the prisoners. So how can I describe my feelings when my own son is one of them?”

“We live in constant anticipation, clinging to scraps of news from released prisoners. When the law was first proposed, our anxiety grew. The decision is devastating and what makes it worse is that we can do nothing.”

Nothing has changed for this father he continues to pray as he did before the law. In every prostration, he repeats: “O God, return him to me safe and victorious.”

He hides his fear behind hope and the absence of charges against his son. “Our hope in God’s mercy is great. So far, no charges have been filed against him, and I am certain the law does not apply to him. Yet I suffer because I feel all prisoners are my sons.”

No Words Suffice

Suzan Abu Matr struggles to speak about the law. Overwhelmed by its weight, she finds no words to express her psychological pain beyond: “God is sufficient for us, and He is the best disposer of affairs. God willing, all prisoners will be freed.”

Her husband, Ahmad Abu Matr, was arrested two months after the outbreak of the war. Since then, she and her daughters have longed for any news of him never imagining that the next news would be this terrifying.

She describes the law as “catastrophic,” yet insists: “For me, hope is greater than fear first because of my faith in God, and also because I know the Israeli occupation has not accused my husband of anything that would warrant execution.”

In the aftermath of Israel’s genocidal war on Gaza—launched on October 7, 2023—the bloodshed has not ceased, even after a ceasefire agreement came into effect on October 11, 2025. The war has left more than 73,000 dead and 184,000 wounded across the enclave.

Today, the injured face slim chances of traveling through the Rafah crossing the only land outlet connecting Gaza to the outside world.

For thousands of patients and war-wounded, travel is no longer a choice but a matter of life or death, amid the collapse of Gaza’s healthcare system, which Israeli forces systematically dismantled during the war. Restrictions on the flow of medical supplies, as well as on the movement of patients and medical delegations, remain firmly in place.

For 11 months, Israeli authorities barred any Palestinian patient or injured person from leaving Gaza for treatment. Crossings were sealed on March 2, 2025. The war resumed with greater ferocity on March 18, 2025, following Israel’s breach of a ceasefire that had begun on January 19, 2025.

Under a ceasefire agreement reached on October 11, 2025, Israel announced the reopening of the Rafah crossing on February 2, 2026, allowing patients and stranded individuals to travel under full Israeli security control, alongside a European mission overseeing civilian operations.

The crossing, however, remained open for little more than a month. In early March 2026, Israeli authorities shut it down again, citing security conditions shattering the hopes of thousands awaiting treatment.

United Nations data indicates that only 260 patients and wounded individuals managed to travel abroad for treatment between February 2 and February 19, 2026. Limited departures continued before Israel once again closed the crossing on March 1, 2026, citing security concerns and the U.S.-Israeli war on Iran.

A partial reopening was announced on March 6, 2026, under the same restrictions, but this has yet to materialize on the ground. Rafah crossing remains closed to this day.

For many in Gaza, the war with Iran has been used as a pretext to tighten the siege further restricting aid, goods, and medical evacuations. As a result, nearly 20,000 patients and wounded individuals are left facing an uncertain fate unless the crossing is urgently reopened.

A Painfully Slow Process

Noon Post spoke with several war-wounded individuals whose names are listed for travel. Each recounted a deeply personal ordeal shaped by prolonged waiting, deteriorating health, and unrelenting pain.

One of them is 17-year-old Mohammed Al-Rajoudi. On July 18, 2025, he was searching for food for his family, heading toward U.S. aid distribution centers in southern Gaza. He returned carried on shoulders paralyzed after a sniper’s bullet lodged in his back, turning his life upside down.

The injury did not merely rob him of mobility it confined him to a bed for over seven months, leaving him trapped in constant pain and fragile hope. That hope rises with every announcement of Rafah’s reopening, only to collapse with each renewed closure.

Since that day, Mohammed has clung to a single possibility what doctors told him: that he might regain mobility if he can travel abroad for treatment.

He watches as travelers endure grueling conditions long hours of waiting, degrading inspection procedures, and the harassment of militias aligned with Israeli forces alongside the recurring closures of Rafah.

What is even more devastating, he says, is the extremely slow pace at which patients are allowed to leave, under tight Israeli control and stringent security measures. For thousands, life hangs in limbo, tethered to the elusive chance of medical evacuation a dream eroding day by day.

Al-Rajoudi told Noon Post that no news mattered more to him than the reopening of the crossing and the departure of wounded patients. Yet he was shocked by what he saw: a painfully slow process and procedures too complex to endure.

“My life depends on this journey,” he said. “The hardest thing is being immobilized unable to move or care for yourself. I thought reopening the crossing would end this nightmare, but the road still seems long and exhausting.”

His family struggled immensely to secure a medical referral abroad. Doctors need to extract the bullet fragments lodged in his body responsible for his paralysis—before beginning an intensive rehabilitation program overseas, in the hope that he may walk again.

Pain in Waiting

Hassan Al-Alyan, 26, says his ordeal began when Israeli helicopters bombed his home in Nuseirat refugee camp, leaving his body riddled with shrapnel, deep wounds, and shattered bones.

Since then, his suffering has been unrelenting. He is still waiting his turn for treatment, urgently needing to travel to begin intensive care.

Speaking to Noon Post, Al-Alyan described the number of patients allowed to leave each day as “a drop in the ocean” compared to the overwhelming humanitarian need. He has undergone 38 surgeries under full anesthesia performed in field hospitals set up in tents aimed solely at keeping him alive until he can travel abroad. That moment has yet to come.

He added that the depletion of painkillers in Health Ministry stocks has forced him to endure nearly 90 days of continuous agony, with pain coursing through his entire body and worsening his condition. Despite repeated attempts to expedite his travel due to the severity of his case, he remains unable to leave Gaza.

“The crossing is closed more often than it is open,” he said. “And those allowed to leave are very few. My case hasn’t even been assigned a host country or a travel date on the medical platform, even though my application was submitted over nine months ago. My condition is extremely critical.”

He explained that only limited painkillers offer partial relief, but he is now unable to move due to damage to vital organs, including the pancreas, liver, and intestines. His condition requires urgent evacuation for treatment outside Gaza.

The Struggle of the Disabled

The war has left 6,528 people with permanent disabilities due to limb amputations. They now face a unique hardship, unable to move freely amid the absence of functioning prosthetics centers in Gaza.

Thousands are waiting for the chance to travel abroad to receive artificial limbs hoping to rebuild lives closer to normalcy and escape the torment of injury, far from wheelchairs that remain unavailable to many.

Among them is 28-year-old Mahdi Abu Nasser, who lost his family and more than 150 relatives and neighbors in an Israeli strike on his home in Al-Maghazi camp in December 2023. He sustained severe injuries that resulted in permanent disability and continues to wait for his turn to travel as his condition deteriorates.

“I was pulled from under the rubble, my body covered in blood, with my leg trapped beneath the debris,” he told Noon Post. “I don’t know how I survived that massive bombardment. The physical pain was not the worst the psychological trauma of losing my family, relatives, and neighbors was far more devastating.”

He added: “My life has been completely halted for over two years. I still haven’t received a prosthetic limb or even a wheelchair. I’ve lost my home and now live in a tent conditions that are completely incompatible with my health, yet I’ve been forced to adapt due to the lack of options.”

Abu Nasser says he is among those most in need of urgent travel not only for prosthetic fitting and wound treatment but also for psychological recovery from the deep scars left by the loss of his family and former life. Yet the path remains blocked by repeated closures of the crossing.

He appealed to anyone who can intervene to help facilitate medical evacuations and ease the suffering of the wounded, stressing that the physical and psychological pain endured by patients is beyond description.

Dying While Waiting

Thousands of patients on travel lists face a real risk of death. Many have already died while waiting their turn for treatment.

One such case is Mohammed Dabbaan, a young Palestinian man who died after an eight-month struggle with a skin disease that could have been treated abroad. His story reflects that of thousands who lost their lives due to the inability to access treatment during and after the war.

Dabbaan endured severe pain for months, compounded by the lack of medication and proper care. Despite repeated appeals from his family, he died on February 16, 2026 just two weeks after Rafah crossing reopened yet he never got the chance to travel.

His fate may await nearly 20,000 other patients and wounded individuals, underscoring the staggering number of lives the ongoing Israeli siege may claim each day among those still waiting for treatment.

“Braveheart” was the name given to the operation carried out by Israeli occupation army units on January 25, aimed at locating and retrieving the body of the last “Israeli” captive held in the heart of the Gaza Strip, Ran Guily. The recovery was intended to pave the way for concluding the first phase of the ceasefire agreement and moving toward closing the long-running file of Israeli captives held by the resistance, a dossier open since 2014.

Behind the operation’s name lay a sweeping Israeli media campaign that meticulously chronicled its details, portraying it as an act of battlefield heroism and the recovery of a fallen citizen’s remains. It was framed as yet another affirmation of a maxim that has become something of a covenant for successive Israeli governments: “We leave no one behind.” Even if that meant scattering the remains of 250 Palestinian bodies, leaving them strewn across the site.

The matter extends beyond the physical disturbance of graves. It assumes broader Israeli media and political dimensions that reaffirm the Palestinian his body and remains as an object, or less than that. In the following lines, we trace Israeli media coverage of what was described as the “heroic” recovery of Ran Guily, in an attempt to shed light on occupation policies toward the Palestinian body most recently through the delivery of boxes containing corpses and dismembered remains and to contrast this with the reverence accorded to the Israeli body and spirit.

Emotion and Courage Through a Colonial Lens

On the Israeli news site Ynet, the exhumation of Guily’s body from a Palestinian cemetery in Gaza was documented under the headline: “Fighters Burst into Tears and Embraced at the Graves.” The article described a complex and arduous operation carried out on the front lines, quoting the major in charge identified as “Mehalam” who emphasized respect for the dead, stating: “This is one of the differences between us and our enemies,” after noting that the bodies had been examined to ensure they were free of explosives.

The narrative begins from the perspective of the bomb disposal unit commander, described as “among the first to approach the Palestinian bodies removed from the cemetery in eastern Gaza City, touching them to ensure they were not rigged with explosives.” The report dwells on the joy and tears of the “fighters” upon finding Guily’s body, while omitting any further mention of the Palestinian remains.

On another platform, the operation was dubbed a “DNA revolution in the heart of Gaza,” referring to the military rabbinate’s identification and burial branch, which succeeded in conducting DNA analysis “under enemy fire and issuing a swift halachic ruling.” In fact, the operation was carried out in coordination with the Palestinian resistance following the ceasefire agreement and in full compliance with it by the resistance.

In a radio program titled “Eight Zero Zero,” Rabbi Nir Yaffe elaborated at length on the operation, describing it as exceptionally complex and unprecedented, combining personal and professional challenges and reflecting advanced capabilities that enabled the army to conduct DNA identification in the field. This came despite the army’s two-year struggle of exhuming Palestinian graves in search of its soldiers’ bodies.

Even lifestyle and health pages joined the coverage of what was deemed a major event—but from a “medical” angle. On the Israeli platform “Mako Health,” Dr. Assi Sharon, a specialist in oral and maxillofacial reconstruction, was spotlighted for her role in identifying Guily’s body.

Her interview was headlined: “My Heart Raced and I Lost My Composure.” The article detailed her work under difficult field conditions alongside soldiers and the moment she realized the identification process had been completed and the file closed. She described her work as a “national mission” in which hundreds of bodies were examined without any mention of whose bodies they were.

Meanwhile, the clerical website “Vilna Gaon” focused on the logistical, security, and forensic obstacles accompanying the operation, as well as the role of the global rabbinate in developing tools and methods to ensure the reunion of the Jewish soul and body at resurrection. The search was led by the Third Brigade alongside Iskandroni forces, an infantry unit, the Yahalom engineering unit, and 20 forensic doctors.

The operation centered on examining as many bodies as possible in the shortest time. Follow-up units from Abu Kabir Forensic Institute were mobilized, along with fingerprint, dental, and field DNA teams. Guily’s body was found after 250 corpses had been examined.

Notably, while the reports emphasize the precision of DNA testing and fingerprints and dramatize the “heroism” of working swiftly in “enemy territory,” they also acknowledge that Guily’s body was found largely intact, still wearing his official uniform, in an area identified by a Palestinian Islamic Jihad prisoner familiar with the movements of the cell that had held him.

The disclosure that the Shin Bet interrogated a member of Islamic Jihad with direct knowledge of the burial site thereby narrowing the search leaves little doubt that exhuming 250 bodies was not a genuine necessity, particularly as graves were being simultaneously disturbed in the pursuit of speed.

“First to Enter… Last to Leave,” read the headline of a report in the Israeli newspaper Mishpacha, recounting how Guily left on the morning of October 7 to confront the assault and was recently recovered. The piece gave space to his mother, to his mourning council, and to the collective relief of Israelis at the return of “their last one.” It also revealed a hidden dimension of the exhumation process.

According to the report, occupation forces exhumed 800 graves in al-Batsch cemetery. Despite Islamic graves typically bearing details such as age and gender, the forces carried out a comprehensive and collective exhumation. From these, 250 bodies sharing Guily’s approximate age, gender, and height were selected for forensic examination.

The report further disclosed that 150 experts, technicians, and engineers participated, including forensic dentists, lab technicians equipped with portable X-ray machines, and members of the military rabbinate. It reaffirmed that Guily had been wearing the uniform of the special police unit “Yasam,” stripping away any remaining justification for Israeli tampering with Palestinian graves and bodies.

The article largely bypassed any reference to Palestinians, focusing instead on the soldiers who worked for 24 consecutive hours exhuming the cemetery, who hastened to cover Guily’s body with the Israeli flag and sing over him. It concluded with the line: “Perhaps gathering Ran Guily’s remains and burying them in the Land of Israel heralds our own redemption as well.”

In reality, the coverage across other Israeli outlets differed little. All praised the operation’s heroism and courage in retrieving a body from among hundreds, conducting a swift search in enemy territory, and bringing closure to a decade-long file of captives. The word “Palestinians” was scarcely mentioned; they appeared only as “bodies” and “remains.”

This erasure is magnified by the fact that several Palestinian corpses were transferred to Abu Kabir Forensic Institute in Jerusalem. The occupation army declared the area a closed military zone after completing its search.

Journalistic footage showed shattered graves, bodies strewn outside their burial sites, and widespread destruction in the cemetery denying Palestinians even the ability to identify their loved ones’ final resting places.

Bones and Remains

This Israeli media treatment of the Palestinian body is not detached from a prevailing political and social ideology that views the Palestinian as an object to be disposed of. Less than a week after the exhumation at al-Batsch cemetery and the scattering of the dead’s remains left vulnerable even to stray animals occupation authorities handed over the bodies of 54 Palestinians killed, along with 66 boxes containing remains and body parts, via the International Committee of the Red Cross.

The handover did not come as part of the ceasefire arrangements or after coordination with Palestinian health authorities and medical teams. It was sudden, prompting Gaza’s Director General of the Ministry of Health, Dr. Munir al-Barsh, to write on X that “it is as if the goal was not merely to end life, but to erase identity, break memory, and humiliate the living before the dead.”

The Special Committee for Missing Persons and Unidentified Bodies at Gaza’s Ministry of Health announced the activation of a dedicated identification room since late January to verify the identities of the martyrs and complete legal procedures for burial in a manner befitting their dignity.

Families of the missing were called upon to attend and participate in the identification process, to help end the anguish of searching and enable relatives to receive their loved ones’ remains. The identification process in northern governorates was scheduled to take place at al-Shifa Medical Complex from 9 a.m. to 2 p.m. over three consecutive days.

In the face of this tragedy, Israeli media limited themselves to brief English-language reports, treating the matter as an external affair. The Times of Israel headlined its piece: “Hamas-run Health Ministry announces return of remains of dozens of Palestinians to Gaza,” adding that “Israel did not comment on the ministry’s statement.”

No mention appeared in Hebrew-language outlets, as though the event had not occurred. This silence underscores the alignment of Israeli policy and media, united in a single premise once articulated by Israeli Finance Minister Bezalel Smotrich: “There is no such thing as a Palestinian people.”

More Than Just Policy

Sociologist Iman al-Badawi, a specialist in the sociology of resistance and occupation policies, told Noon Post that “the policy of exhuming graves and returning mutilated remains after detention represents two opposing pillars in constructing a colonial power structure that continually reproduces violence and conflict. Violence inflicted upon the dead body extends to violence upon the living body.”

She added that the manner in which bodies are returned often in poor condition, bearing signs of torture and fragmentation reintroduces Palestinian society into a recurring state of trauma, rather than allowing it to enter a phase of healing and closure.

As for grave exhumations—repeated throughout what Palestinians describe as a genocide—they transform cemeteries from spaces of collective memory and reverence into contested sites of meaning and identity. Cemeteries function as mechanisms of mourning and collective recognition of the dead within an inherited cultural framework.

When occupation forces destroy and bulldoze cemeteries, open graves, mix remains, displace bodies from their original sites, and confiscate them without clear documentation, they target the symbolic and national structures that sustain collective memory and social resilience.

They sever the symbolic bonds between the living and the dead, generating a collective sense that even death does not mark the end of suffering.

Returning remains in a mutilated and fragmented state, al-Badawi argues, deepens the psychological pain of families and fuels collective frustration particularly regarding the cost and perceived futility of resistance while serving as a performative assertion of Israel’s control over every dimension of life and death.

In sum, Israel appears intent on ensuring that Palestinians never forget its capacity to torment their existence and their endings. Even when it performs what might be construed as a humanitarian act returning bodies and granting families a measure of closure—it does so in a manner that degrades the Palestinian body and violates its dignity.

Not merely because it is an occupying power, nor solely out of an expanding desire for retribution, but because, in its view, the Palestinian does not deserve even an honorable ending the hymns and prayers afforded to its own soldiers. In the past, Menachem Begin declared: “The good Palestinian is a dead Palestinian.”

Today, the “good Palestinian” is not only dead, but denied burial with dignity or remembrance in wholeness the Palestinian whose body, even in death, remains subject to examination, suspicion, bargaining, and violation; whose life and remains persist as terrain for the occupier’s control and manipulation.

Amid Sudan’s brutal war since 2023, harrowing new testimonies have emerged revealing that the Rapid Support Forces (RSF) have been systematically abducting children, using them both as pawns and tools in their military campaign.

Eyewitnesses report that RSF fighters kidnapped dozens of children during their assault on the city of El Fasher in Darfur and other nearby attacks sometimes after killing the children’s parents before their eyes.

These scenes echo the atrocities committed two decades ago by the RSF’s predecessor, the Janjaweed militias, during the Darfur conflict.

Abductions Across War-Torn Darfur

The child kidnappings have primarily occurred in Darfur, the epicenter of clashes between the RSF and Sudanese Armed Forces. In October 2025, following an 18-month siege, the RSF seized El Fasher, the capital of North Darfur, committing grave abuses including the abduction of displaced children.

According to survivor testimonies gathered by Reuters (January 30, 2026), kidnappings took place within El Fasher and along the El Fasher–Tawila road, where tens of thousands of civilians had sought refuge from the fighting.

Children were often taken at gunpoint during terrifying raids. Witnesses described how gunmen executed fathers before ripping children from their mothers’ arms and hauling them away in military vehicles.

Reuters documented at least 56 children ranging in age from two months to 17 years—abducted in 23 separate incidents in Darfur since 2023.

Even displacement camps have not been spared. Amnesty International documented the abduction of a child from the Zamzam camp near El Fasher by RSF elements.

Twenty-six witnesses who fled to North Darfur or eastern Chad confirmed a pattern of child abductions during every major RSF assault over the past two years, with attacks extending beyond cities to rural villages and migration routes.

Beyond Abduction: Killing and Brutality

The violence against children goes far beyond kidnapping. During the El Fasher invasion, one witness recounted seeing a field commander known as “Abu Lulu” execute a group of detainees, including a pregnant woman and ten children, in cold blood.

The UN has documented a sharp rise in the number of children killed or subjected to sexual violence during the first year of conflict.

Aid workers in camps described children arriving with severe injuries—including gunshot wounds and young girls who had been raped, exposing the scale of abuse faced by minors.

These actions constitute flagrant violations of international humanitarian law, which prohibits killing, sexual violence, and forced recruitment of children in conflict.

Why Are Children Being Taken?

Evidence suggests the RSF abducts children primarily for forced labor using them as domestic servants and herders.

In one 2023 case, a displaced woman fleeing Nyala recounted being stopped in Karmaga village by RSF fighters. The militia blindfolded three boys around nine years old and drove them off in pickup trucks.

Two of the boys had already lost their mothers in airstrikes. The fighters told the woman bluntly that the boys would be tasked with herding livestock.

Multiple witnesses confirmed that kidnappings often coincided with livestock looting. The children were derogatorily labeled “Falngaayaat,” a term implying house slaves and used to demean those considered sympathetic to the army.

According to four testimonies, RSF members said the children would care for camels and sheep stolen during raids.

Child herding is not uncommon in Darfur, but the RSF is exploiting this cultural norm to justify modern-day servitude.

Children are kept in horrific conditions. Amnesty International documented one case where a boy was chained at night and forced to herd sheep during the day for six weeks. His captors then demanded a ransom of five million Sudanese pounds (about $1,500), which his family eventually paid for his release.

This underscores another motive: financial extortion, where child victims become tools for fundraising through ransom.

A Legacy of Abuse: From Janjaweed to RSF

These atrocities are a continuation of Darfur’s long history of child exploitation by the Janjaweed militias, from which the RSF was formed under Omar al-Bashir’s regime.

Human rights reports detail how the Janjaweed abducted hundreds possibly thousands of non-Arab children between 2003–2009, forcing them into labor, herding, and even sexual slavery or forced marriages.

These acts were part of a wider campaign of ethnic cleansing against the Fur, Masalit, and Zaghawa tribes.

No perpetrators were ever held accountable, perpetuating a culture of impunity and enabling such crimes to resurface in today’s conflict.

The Sudanese government has likened the RSF’s current abductions and torture of children to Janjaweed tactics under the former regime.

Despite RSF denials, claiming these are isolated incidents, the systematic nature of these crimes paints a different picture one of strategic and institutionalized child abuse.

A Lost Generation Amid Mass Displacement

The toll on Sudan’s children is catastrophic. Families have been shattered, with thousands of children now orphaned, missing, or displaced.

Following the fall of El Fasher, aid agencies reported that at least 400 unaccompanied children arrived in nearby Tawila, with numbers rising by roughly 200 children daily in overcrowded camps.

Most fled alone after losing their families during attacks. Over 100,000 civilians reportedly escaped El Fasher and surrounding areas in that period.

Humanitarian workers describe children arriving exhausted, terrified, and traumatized some found lying beside the bodies of their parents, rescued by strangers.

In Tawila, relief teams reported cases of children rendered mute, plagued by recurring nightmares. Many had spent days hiding in the wilderness or trekking through the night to avoid militias after becoming separated from their families.

Some arrived with serious injuries. Young girls had endured sexual assault, leaving them in profound psychological crisis.

The UN Committee on the Rights of the Child has warned that an entire generation in Sudan faces an existential threat from the violence and deprivation of war.

With an estimated 4 million children displaced since the conflict erupted, Sudan now represents the world’s worst child displacement crisis.

Since October 7, 2023, and over the course of 27 weeks, families in Gaza have been losing loved ones one after another. What remains are stories told with hearts weighed down by grief and minds still struggling to comprehend the scale of the loss. Behind every martyr is a family reeling from absence a wife suddenly turned widow, and children stripped of their fathers, now known simply as orphans.

Since the outbreak of war, the lives of thousands of women and children in Gaza have been upended, their roles and identities forcibly redefined in the midst of an unbearably harsh reality. The ongoing campaign of extermination continues to shape their daily lives, even after a nominal ceasefire came into effect.

A Humanitarian Catastrophe in Numbers

Children make up approximately 47% of Gaza’s population around 980,000. According to data from the Palestinian Central Bureau of Statistics, nearly 39,384 children have lost one or both parents since October 2023. Among them, an estimated 17,000 have lost both parents, leaving them without support or caregivers. The bureau describes this as the worst orphan crisis in Gaza’s modern history.

The same data reveals that more than 14,300 women have lost their husbands in the ongoing war, becoming widows under severe humanitarian and economic strain.

Beyond the Headlines…

In the heart of Gaza, families who lost their sole breadwinner now face an excruciating reality. The person who once provided for them, who ensured a minimum level of stability, is gone leaving these families in direct confrontation with loss, need, and deep uncertainty.

To better understand the reality faced by these women and children, Noon Post spoke with Nour Abu Nada, the widow of martyr Bilal.

Nour begins by describing her husband: “When he was around, hardships never felt as hard. His presence made everything easier. I never saw him angry he was calm, gentle, unlike any partner or father. He was always our safe haven, for me and our children. That’s why losing him was so devastating.”

She recalls the day he was killed: “On December 17, 2023, in Khan Younis in southern Gaza, after the first strike, bodies were scattered everywhere young and old. Bilal rushed to help the wounded. Minutes later, a second, more violent strike hit. I ran outside just to find him and make sure he was okay. I saw them putting him into an ambulance, blood covering parts of his body. The bombardment intensified, and we were told to evacuate.”

She continues: “Bilal went in the ambulance. I returned home alone. I had never needed to depend solely on myself while he was alive. Suddenly, I was alone with three children and my paralyzed father-in-law, in the midst of relentless bombing and destruction.”

Nour adds: “Someone came and whispered something. Then everyone around me began to cry. Their faces told me something terrible had happened. That’s when I realized Bilal was gone. I made ablution and prayed. My only prayer was: ‘Oh Lord, reward me in this calamity.’”

She explains: “My children’s life after losing their father has been extremely difficult. I hid my sorrow from them, because losing a father is no small thing. Their presence helped me cope. Their father was their whole world, and I had to fill that gap. I talk to them often, encourage them to draw and color.

Even during the war, they continued school for two years. I constantly remind them of their father and his bravery. If they do something wrong, I tell them: ‘Your father is a martyr this is a badge of honor.’”

She concludes: “Now I live in northern Gaza, at my parents’ house. The hardest thing I lost in this war was my husband. Today, I lead this family. I provide for my children with help from individuals and charities. It’s been two years and two months since he was martyred, and his absence is still the greatest loss of my life.

One of the hardest moments is waking up to find my son quietly crying under the covers. I ask what’s wrong, and he says, ‘I miss Dad.’ The most painful thing is seeing your child sad and being unable to help. Loss is excruciating a difficult chapter. But not the last one. Thank God.”

Nour ends her story with a final thought: “We’ll never truly heal from what we’ve seen. But we keep going because our children deserve to live.”

The war does not end with the last airstrike, nor does its impact stop at the edge of visible destruction. The years that follow marked by grief and rebuilding will be the ultimate test for those left behind.

The stories of widows and orphans may fade from the headlines, but they represent one of the heaviest and most enduring legacies of war. As life carries on at its bare minimum, the responsibility to support these survivors and to question what led them to this fate remains. It’s a question that extends far beyond Gaza, demanding reflection from anyone who witnesses these horrors and refuses to look away from their profound human cost.

“A building collapses on its residents” such a headline would be rare under normal circumstances, but in Gaza, it’s become expected. The sheer frequency of these tragedies, especially with the arrival of winter, is staggering. Following the massive destruction wrought by Israeli bombardment, many Palestinians have been forced to take shelter amid the wreckage of their former homes.

They do so fully aware of the risks, but see concrete walls and roofs no matter how damaged as a better shield against the elements than a tent ever could be.

For those who’ve lost their homes, the options are few and grim: tents that offer neither dignity nor protection, overpriced rental apartments unaffordable to families whose resources were depleted by the war, or staying with relatives a choice not available to everyone and often rejected due to the constraints it imposes on both hosts and displaced guests.

In this bleak landscape, another option has emerged: returning to the remnants of destroyed buildings whether homes, schools, or institutions. Many embrace the chance, even paying to rent heavily damaged properties.

Those living in structurally compromised buildings endure a nightmare. They accept the danger and do what they can to mitigate it, even as they know deep down that their precautions may prove useless.

Sleepless Nights

“How can I sleep knowing a single small wall is what’s holding the building together?” asks Ihab al-Helou, his face etched with worry. “The building I lived in was bombed during the early days of the war. I moved between relatives’ homes and tents until the ceasefire was agreed upon at the end of 2024, and the occupation forces withdrew. When I came back, I considered myself incredibly lucky.”

His apartment, on the ground floor, still had part of its ceiling intact though it lay beneath the rubble of four upper floors. Al-Helou salvaged the remaining space, sealed it with tarps, and lived there until the most recent wave of displacement.

In September, he fled to central Gaza. When he returned, he found missile remnants embedded in what was left of his home. The livable space had shrunk further, and the remaining ceiling now threatened to collapse. Experts confirmed his fears: “This place is uninhabitable. If a single stone from that wall falls, the entire ceiling could come down.” Ironically, it was a wall he had considered removing to create more space.

“The alternative is a tent,” he says. “My wife and daughters refused to go back to that. A tent means living on the street. We’ve already been through that twice. I know the danger is real but what choice do we have?” He adds, “Since the day I returned to this home in its current condition, I’ve lived in constant fear of it collapsing. That fear turned into terror during the first winter storm, when parts of the structure started to give way.”

“There are nights I can’t close my eyes,” he says. “Sometimes I’m outside and panic at the thought that the house may have collapsed on my family. My wife and daughters feel the same. I feel helpless and heartbroken that I can’t give them a safe place to live.”

For weeks now, water has streamed into al-Helou’s home from every angle during rainstorms. After the rain stops, large amounts of water collected in the debris above seep through the ceiling’s cracks, which seem to multiply with every storm.

With each storm, the winds rip apart the tarps he uses as walls. While he struggles to reattach them, his family races to dry the floodwater. Parts of the home are now unusable, soaked through from persistent leaks. He places buckets beneath the cracks, but the spaces are too damp for sleeping, sitting, or even storing clothes or bedding.

The risk isn’t limited to collapse. A single falling stone from the rubble could kill. That almost happened to his daughter, who had been cooking over a fire behind the house. She had just stepped away to fetch spices when part of a column fell precisely where she had been sitting.

When fixing the tarps, al-Helou is torn: secure them tightly and risk increasing pressure on the fragile structure? Or use small nails and risk them being torn away by the wind?

He notes that each storm creates new cracks and dislodges more debris above. As news of further collapses spreads, al-Helou once again raised the idea of returning to a tent but his family refused.

“Homes are collapsing and so are our spirits,” he says. “With each collapse, our hearts fall too. Fear is growing, and solutions are nowhere in sight.”

He’s issued instructions to his family: avoid certain parts of the house and surrounding area, don’t touch the rubble. “But I know these precautions aren’t enough especially with kids. My youngest daughter saw her toy peeking out from the debris and tried to pull it free. She wasn’t strong enough, but one small shift in the rubble could’ve brought everything down. Only God’s mercy saved us.”

Buried—Then Returned

Just seconds stood between Ibtisam Mahdi and death. She experienced a partial collapse of her home while she was inside. And yet, with no other options, she returned to live in what was left.

She was in the kitchen preparing food when sunlight broke through the clouds. She stepped outside to activate the solar power system. Before she could press the switch, she turned to see the kitchen where she had been standing moments earlier collapse.

“My apartment was originally a high-ceilinged storage room,” she explains. “The contractor split it horizontally, and now I live in the upper half, which stands on external pillars that differ from the rest of the building’s structure.”

After her most recent displacement in September, she returned to find a tank had destroyed one of those crucial outer pillars. A structural engineer assured her the floor was sound but warned that specific walls could collapse if nearby bombing caused major tremors.

Taking his advice, she moved back in cautiously. She warned her two children not to play near the threatened walls. From her window, she even warned neighbors and passersby not to linger beneath them.

Then came the first winter storm and with it, the unimaginable. The very floor the engineer had deemed stable collapsed along with the walls.

As she exited the kitchen, she saw her daughter heading out to meet a friend. But when the collapse began, she panicked, thinking her daughter was still inside. She frantically searched the rubble until she heard her daughter, Mayar, shout: “Mama, I’m here.”

Neighbors assumed the house had been hit by an airstrike. Ibtisam knew otherwise: it had collapsed—and far worse than she ever imagined. As neighbors rushed to check on her family, she worried that debris from her building might have injured someone outside—her long-standing fear.

Amid the chaos, her nine-year-old son Youssef screamed, “Mayar’s gone!” He saw his mother was safe and knew his father wasn’t home but panic blinded him to the fact that Mayar was right in front of him. Ibtisam hugged him and kept repeating, “Mayar is here, right in front of you,” until his fear began to subside.

After the collapse, a man offered her family a room in his home. But three days later, he asked for 500 shekels (around $160) in rent. Two weeks after that, he said the rent would double the following month. That’s when Ibtisam decided to use the money to repair her own home instead.

“The house is still unsafe. The cracks in the walls are obvious. I’m terrified it could collapse again but I have no choice,” she says. “I consulted engineers and followed their instructions. I spent a lot of money on repairs. Anything to avoid going back to a tent.”

It was not an easy decision for her or her family. But after living in a tent for 22 days during their last displacement, they preferred the risk of collapse to the indignity and hardship of tent life. Her children were afraid at first but quickly adapted. Thankfully, neither witnessed the moment of the collapse, which helped lessen the trauma.

Even her extended family urged her not to return. They call every day to check on the house, and only her strict adherence to engineers’ advice has calmed their fears.

The psychological scars are deep. Every gust of wind or drop of rain rekindles the terror. For Ibtisam, who saw the collapse with her own eyes, the trauma was intense. For two weeks, she had nightmares of being trapped in the kitchen as it came crashing down. She eventually sought help from a therapist.

“I’ve lived through horrific moments displacement, nearby strikes, flying shrapnel and debris but nothing compares to what I experienced that day.”

Her family survived but the financial loss is immense. Half her apartment, including the children’s room, their belongings, a brand-new wardrobe, much of the food supply, and the entire kitchen all gone. On top of that, she spent a fortune trying to make the remaining space livable.

Some losses are harder to explain. Like the heartbreak of Youssef and Mayar over two bowls one pink, one blue that their mother had bought when they were toddlers. They used them every day until the collapse.

A Difficult Road Ahead

Maha Bessal, spokesperson for Gaza’s Civil Defense, says structurally unsound buildings are one of the most pressing and complex challenges facing the enclave, with thousands of buildings at risk of collapse and tens of thousands of people still living in them.

“A building deemed unsafe typically has compromised foundations or major structural damage,” Bessal tells Noon Post. “These structures can collapse at any moment, posing a serious threat not just to residents but to anyone nearby.”

Most of these buildings are located near cities or in areas previously entered by Israeli ground forces. Even empty buildings are dangerous especially with tents now set up everywhere around them.

People are returning to unstable buildings because they have no alternatives, Bessal explains. Tents offer no protection from the cold or heat. While most residents know they need to leave these buildings, they simply have nowhere else to go.

“We’ve urged people to evacuate,” he says. “Some listened and in several cases, their buildings collapsed days after they left. Others escaped only minutes before their homes gave way.”

He stresses that even partially damaged homes those that appear livable can be extremely dangerous. Debris can fall at any time, and further collapses are possible.

“Just because a building is still standing doesn’t mean it’s safe,” Bessal warns. “The volume of explosives dropped on Gaza has caused structural weaknesses in nearly every building. We need a comprehensive assessment. The risk of collapse remains very high.”

Since the ceasefire began in October, 50 buildings have collapsed entirely 22 during winter storms. More than 150 have partially collapsed. At least 27 people have died due to cold weather and structural failures. That number doesn’t include casualties from the most recent storm, which claimed three lives on its first day alone.

Amid an unprecedented catastrophe that has engulfed the Gaza Strip one of the fiercest and most destructive wars in its history medical students found themselves thrust into emergency rooms and operating theaters. A profound sense of duty and an unshakable humanitarian call pushed them forward.

Years before graduation, donning nothing but their white coats and sheer determination, they faced grueling shifts and life-or-death decisions in the middle of a genocidal war that decimated healthcare infrastructure and depleted already scarce resources.

These students weren’t training they were saving lives, racing against time to rescue whoever they could. In doing so, they wrote new chapters of courage and resilience during one of the darkest humanitarian moments Gaza has ever faced.

From Classrooms to Emergency Rooms

Azzedine Al-Loulu, a fifth-year medical student specializing in human medicine, is one of many students who moved between emergency rooms and surgical theaters, tending to the wounded and injured, offering medical care to his fellow citizens.

On November 13, 2024, Azzedine received a phone call informing him that his family home had been bombed. Twenty members of his family were killed, including his brother and his father, Dr. Samir Al-Loulu. His mother was the sole survivor but sustained critical injuries.

He recalls that this massacre was the most devastating event he experienced during the war he received his own family members at the hospital as martyrs. Yet, he was not the only doctor in Gaza to suffer such heartbreak. Many physicians have paid a steep price: some killed, others arrested, beaten, or tortured for their dedication to their people and profession.

In memory of his father, Dr. Samir Al-Loulu, Azzedine established the “Samir Foundation” to support and assist medical students an initiative to help realize the dreams of aspiring doctors, offer knowledge and aid, and serve as an ongoing charitable tribute to his father’s legacy.

Likewise, fifth-year medical student Dr. Donia Abu Moussa told Noon Post that while watching images and videos of the massacres carried out by the Israeli military against civilians during the war, she felt compelled to act. Her place, she believed, was not at home but alongside the wounded and the dying.

“I went as a human being, not just as a medical student,” she said. “I studied medicine for a noble cause, and this was the moment to fulfill that mission the professional, humanitarian, and national duty I owe my people.”

She describes her first time entering the emergency department as a moment of shock and disbelief, overwhelmed by the sheer number and severity of injuries: a man breathing his last at the ER door, a bleeding child whose limbs had been amputated, a young man reduced to fragments.

Reflecting on the mental toll of learning in such conditions, Dr. Dounia explained: “Every piece of knowledge we gained in the field came at a high price our time, our psychological well-being, our fear for our families, and the dread of possibly receiving them as martyrs, God forbid.

Beyond the bombs, we were fighting wars within ourselves. But despite everything, we pressed on, fulfilling our duty and delivering care to all.”

She added that her family’s repeated displacement in search of safety left them with nowhere to go, forcing them to sleep on the streets. She also suffered fainting spells from malnutrition during the famine, further complicating her ability to reach the hospital.

The Return of In-Person Learning at Some Universities

Professor Bassam Al-Saqqa, Vice President for Academic Affairs at the Islamic University of Gaza, stated that the institution is primarily an in-person university and that online education had been an emergency measure forced by war.

The decision to resume in-person classes was made despite near-total destruction of university buildings and the collapse of academic infrastructure, including labs, internet networks, and electricity.

He emphasized that the return to campus was not only an academic goal but also a humanitarian and social imperative. Education, he said, remains a core priority for the Palestinian people, and the students’ return helped breathe life back into many facets of daily life in Gaza.

Twelve out of sixteen university buildings were completely destroyed in the bombardment, while the remaining four were partially damaged. A large number of academic and administrative staff were killed, including the university’s president, Professor Sofian Tayeh.

Despite these devastating losses, the university managed using very limited resources to restore five classrooms and some administrative offices, enabling a partial return to in-person learning.

Prof. Al-Saqqa noted that the university was taken aback by the overwhelming response from students and their families. The palpable enthusiasm led the administration to open two new teaching halls in the central region near Al-Nuseirat refugee camp, and another in the southern city of Khan Younis.

During the first semester, in-person learning was limited to selected first-year disciplines, including medicine, nursing, engineering, science, health sciences, information technology, Islamic law, and legal studies.

More than 4,000 students returned to in-person learning during the first phase. Plans are in place to expand this number gradually in the coming semester. Other disciplines have temporarily continued online.

Given Gaza’s dire economic circumstances and the collapse of most household incomes, the university has waived all tuition fees. Al-Saqqa expressed hope that friendly nations, donors, and partner universities would step in to help cover the costs and support students in continuing their education in a society that has lost a generation of doctors, lawyers, engineers, teachers, and scholars critical minds needed to rebuild Gaza.

The State of Higher Education in Gaza

Dr. Abdelhamid Al-Yaacoubi, spokesperson for the Ministry of Higher Education in Gaza, described the current crisis as the most perilous period for higher education in the Strip’s history. Since the onset of the war on October 7, 2023, universities have shifted from striving to develop to simply struggling to survive under systematic destruction.

According to official assessments by the ministry, in collaboration with UNESCO, more than 63 university campuses and facilities have been damaged or destroyed rendered completely unusable. These include colleges, labs, libraries, and administrative centers.

The human toll is staggering. Nearly 88,000 students have had their studies disrupted. More than 1,362 students have been killed, and over 2,931 wounded. An estimated 246 members of academic and administrative staff have been killed, and 1,491 injured. The numbers of those detained or missing remain unknown.

Material losses exceed $373 million in direct damages, including the destruction of hundreds of labs, research facilities, and the loss of thousands of computers, educational devices, and digital servers. These figures do not account for the long-term damage to scientific research and human development.

Most universities have ceased in-person instruction entirely, with only limited, makeshift returns in some cases. Emergency solutions have included partial reliance on online learning, though it only reaches a fraction of students.

The Ministry has launched emergency plans to rescue students particularly those from the 2006 and 2007 cohorts by boosting digital education through partnerships with UNESCO and international organizations, facilitating academic support through external training agreements, and helping students graduate by settling overdue tuition and debt.

Although some students secured scholarships abroad, many remain stranded due to closed crossings and delayed visa and travel procedures. Domestic scholarship programs have also dried up amid economic collapse and institutional strain.

Still, a few universities including the Islamic University, Al-Azhar University, the University of Palestine, and the University College of Applied Sciences have resumed hybrid or in-person instruction, particularly in medical and engineering faculties.

Dr. Al-Yaacoubi concluded by emphasizing that this is not merely a material assault on education but a direct attack on the future of an entire generation. It is a flagrant violation of the right to education enshrined in international law.

By targeting Gaza’s education sector, Israel is not only destroying the present, but deliberately undermining the capacity of future generations to learn, build, and rise again. It is a strike on Palestinian consciousness and a blow to the very foundations of a society’s future. The only question that remains: how long will it take Gaza to rise again academically, socially, and economically?

On the Palestinian Digital Museum’s website lies a special collection curated by researcher Hamza al-Aqrabawi: over 900 documents and archival photographs of his hometown, Aqraba, and its surroundings, spanning the 19th and 20th centuries.

But in the hearts and memories of people, the echoes of his stories stretch even further tales longer than the years he lived before his life was abruptly swept away by the Nile’s depths.

This is not the biography of a conventional historian, but the story of a man who loved his homeland deeply and found his own way to protect it. Hamza’s devotion was to Palestine’s social history, to its oral traditions, to the proverbs, rituals, and legends passed down through generations.

A true son of the land, he could tell you when each wild plant in Palestine blooms, its local names, and the traditional dishes it flavors. He could transform what sounded like folklore into documented truth. His speech overflowed with proverbs and parables. He was, as they said of him, the storyteller who “makes the world go quiet when he speaks.”

That was Hamza until December 30, when his tale was extinguished in the waters of the Nile he so loved. His sudden passing broke the hearts of those who yearned to hear the rest of his stories, those who relied on his tireless work to preserve what remains of a homeland teetering on the edge of oblivion. Hamza — Abu Osama — disappeared before the country did.

Son of the Land, Keeper of Its Soul

Hamza Osama Khader Dirieh was born just after mid-July in 1984 in the town of Aqraba, southeast of Nablus. The son of a farmer and a mother who spoke the language of the earth, his childhood unfolded among olive groves and harvest fields the earliest playgrounds of his memory. It was no surprise he proudly identified as a fellah a peasant, in the most honorable sense of the word.

As a child, Hamza would sit beside his grandfather, absorbing stories of families and neighboring villages. It was there he developed his storytelling instincts, learning to weave words into memory a skill that would become his legacy.

Just before his high school exams, during the height of the Second Intifada, while the West Bank was ablaze, Hamza immersed himself in collecting stories of the martyrs. He pieced together their lives from newspaper clippings, making that paper trail his world. He later enrolled at An-Najah National University to study business administration.

But business was not his calling. After a single academic year and a brief stint at a company in Ramallah, he chose instead to return to the land and to his true vocation: documenting and preserving memory. In 2006, he launched a personal research project to uncover the hidden stories of Palestinian farmers their sayings, songs, beliefs, myths, seasonal customs, hunger, thirst, cold and heat breathing life into Palestinian folklore, and transforming it into a living, collective memory.

He left no valley unexplored, no protest unattended, no cave untouched. He never separated memory from the present. Instead, he focused his efforts on reinforcing Palestinian villages besieged by settlement expansion and forced displacement.

His activism earned him a seat on the Committee for the Defense of Khirbet al-Tawil a hamlet east of Aqraba threatened with seizure.

Through that work, he captured the attention of solidarity activists and hikers alike. In 2012, he led a walking group called Tijwal Safar (“Travel Trek”), guiding participants through Palestinian villages with stories that turned every stone into a chapter of history. Recognizing the power of these stories, he published them in his 2014 book, Minbar’s Overlook.

It was then that Hamza, known increasingly as al-Aqrabawi, took his first steps toward community archiving. He traveled from one elder to another, gathering their memories, until he earned another nickname: Abu al-Ajāyez Father of the Elderly.

From Memory Keeper to Storyteller

The collecting, documenting, and retelling of heritage and memory filled every corner of Hamza al-Aqrabawi’s being. In a previous interview, he described how he began speaking simply to fill time then, to his surprise, someone introduced him as a hakawati (traditional storyteller).

At first he resisted the label but once he started, the words flowed like an unstoppable spring. He had found his voice.

With documents dating as far back as 1842, spanning the British Mandate, the Nakba, the Naksa, and the Palestinian revolution including handwritten manuscripts attributed to Imam Ali and Sultan Abdul Hamid II he amassed a priceless archive. And yet, he never kept it under lock and key.

Like his memory and his stories, it was always available to anyone with a thirst for knowledge. He would begin with his trademark line: “Don’t you want to know the details?” and keep going until his audience was too full to absorb any more.

Al-Aqrabawi was more than an archivist or storyteller. He became a tour guide, launching initiatives such as the Social Media Bus taking young Palestinians from schools and universities on tours through historical landmarks, ancient domes, and scenic hills, narrating stories nearly erased by time stories that would have vanished if not for his persistence.

In his eulogy, journalist Imad al-Asfar wrote:
“From a young age, Hamza shouldered a burden too heavy for institutions and universities. He worked alone, with unmatched passion and love. He couldn’t limit himself to one task because he stood before mountains of abandoned heritage, stories and proverbs no one had documented, and sites no one had studied.”

“Tell Palestine’s Story… So That It May Live”

In 2015, Hamza was joined on his walks by the late activist Basil al-Araj. Together, they launched a unique form of resistance they called “Oral Archiving of Resistance and Reviving Popular Memory.” Al-Araj would recount the events of the Great Palestinian Revolt and retrace the steps of its battles, while al-Aqrabawi urged young people to walk the land:
“If you don’t know your country, how can you love it? And if you don’t love your country, how can you defend it?”

Al-Araj would go on to live — and die — by those words. “I did what I believed in,” he said. “I researched, spoke, wrote, walked, planned, organized, bought a weapon, got arrested, went on hunger strike, got released, went underground, and initiated confrontation.” He died a martyr.

Hamza’s path led him instead to proclaim: “Walk the land, and it becomes yours.”
He echoed Palestinian artist Salman Natour: “The hyenas will devour us if we lose our memory.”
And so Hamza chased memory fearing that we might forget, or worse, that the land might forget us.
He believed that “the death of an elder is like burning down a library,” and that documenting history was as vital as any weapon.

In recent years, Hamza’s archival work grew more expansive. His stories reached beyond borders, and his sign-off “Stay with the stories” became a signature. His voice resonated across youth initiatives, from Karavan al-Shabab to the Prophet Moses Festival, unconsciously becoming a bridge between land and memory, between history and now.

But he didn’t stop at storytelling. He wove his research into historical, economic, social, and cultural contexts to safeguard Palestinian identity. He contributed to the founding of the Khazaa’in (Treasures) archival project, generously offering his materials, always racing death to preserve memory.

He also collaborated with Roya Center for Political Development on a documentation project about displaced Bedouin communities in the Jordan Valley over 212 communities, where more than 9,000 Palestinians were displaced in the past decade. With the Institute for Palestine Studies, he produced several policy papers and studies, proving that Palestinian resilience endures.

For two years, Hamza was barred from traveling. When the ban was lifted in September, he returned to schoolchildren, speaking in their classrooms and libraries telling stories untold. And when he could finally leave the country, he carried Palestine’s stories with him stories that defy erasure and annexation.

Thus ended, on the banks of the Nile, the rich yet brief journey of a man who loved his homeland a devoted father of four, a husband with endless stories, a son who lived in the memory of his parents. They say he died too young. But Palestine mourns not only his youth, but his loyalty, his memory-fueled resistance, his curiosity, his generosity.

Had the country the means to bid him farewell as he deserved, it would carry Abu Osama’s body through its plains and valleys across walls, checkpoints, and exhaustion until the people reached the place where their memory keeper now rests.
So his story could end where it should not in silence, but in continuity.
So his tales may become schoolbooks, bedtime stories, maps of return for a homeland burdened by loss.

Hamza once said, “A person is born a storyteller.”
What he didn’t know was that some stories cling to their tellers even after death.

In a small village in Egypt’s Sharqia Governorate, Mohamed Salah sits among a group of locals searching for any trace of their missing relatives. These young men left Egypt two years ago on an irregular migration journey through Libya, one that ended in tragedy when their boat sank off the Greek coast.

While some bodies were recovered and returned, Mohamed’s brother and several others from the village never came back. Residents believe many of them were not on the ill-fated boat, but were instead detained in Libya. Yet no official confirmation has ever been provided.

Mohamed’s brother is just one of thousands of Egyptians believed to be missing in Libya. According to the International Organization for Migration (IOM), roughly 4,200 irregular migrants are currently held in official Libyan detention centers, with another estimated 3,000 in informal facilities run by smuggling networks.

Although these figures include various nationalities, Egyptians account for the majority due to the country’s proximity to Libya’s eastern border.

The Migration Scenario

In 2016, Egypt woke up to the tragic news of a migrant boat capsizing just 12 kilometers off the coast of Rashid (Rosetta) in Beheira Governorate. The catastrophe, later dubbed the Rashid Boat Disaster, claimed the lives of 237 people, including Egyptians, Syrians, and other African nationals.

At the time, Egypt was both a source and a transit country for irregular migration sending migrants abroad while also serving as a departure point for others.

Following that disaster, Egyptian authorities ramped up efforts to prevent irregular migration from its shores. During the first Egypt-EU summit in Brussels on October 22, 2025, President Abdel Fattah el-Sisi emphasized his country’s success in halting such journeys, stating: “Not a single boat has left Egypt carrying irregular migrants to European shores since 2016.”

While technically accurate, this assertion overlooks a crucial shift: irregular migration routes have not ceased but merely changed course. Instead of departing by sea from Egyptian shores, migrant -primarily Egyptians- now travel overland through the western desert into Libya. From there, they attempt to cross to Italy or Greece via the Mediterranean.

According to Abdel Qader Abdel Rahman (a pseudonym), he traveled from his village in Abnoub, Assiut Governorate, using a network of smugglers. His journey began with a domestic flight to Borg El Arab airport, followed by travel to Egypt’s western border. There, a smuggler handed him off to another across the border.

A vocational school graduate, Abdel Qader was lured by friends already in Italy who shared pictures of comfortable lives and high wages. Through them, he was put in touch with a smuggler via a social media page. But upon arriving in Libya, reality hit hard.

His friends weren’t in Italy they were still in Libya, working unpaid on an olive farm. They had been coerced into contacting others from their village, enticing them to follow the same path under threat of death if they refused.

Abdel Qader spent several months on that farm, enduring abuse and severe malnutrition. Eventually, the smuggler forced him to call his father and demand a ransom of 150,000 Egyptian pounds to secure his return.

His father raised the amount through high-interest microloans, reportedly at rates of up to 100%. The payment was transferred via Egyptian intermediaries, and Abdel Qader was eventually sent back home physically broken and severely undernourished.

His story echoes that of Mohamed Salah’s brother, who, despite being aware of the risks, was convinced by promises of a “free” trip to Libya. In this scheme, no upfront payment is required; instead, migrants are told the costs will be deducted from their future earnings in Italy.

But upon arrival, families receive extortion calls demanding up to 200,000 pounds. Those who can’t pay are held in warehouses, subjected to torture, forced labor or even killed.

Al-Raddaa Prison

Khalifa Mostafa was among 200 relatives of missing Egyptians who gathered at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Egypt’s new administrative capital in December. They were seeking any information about their loved ones Khalifa’s nephew, Ziad Mostafa Khalifa, disappeared three years ago at the age of 16.

A smuggler had persuaded his father that because Ziad was a minor under European law, he would qualify for asylum in Italy and eventually gain citizenship. The smuggler charged the family 150,000 pounds.

However, the boat carrying Ziad was intercepted by Libyan authorities and returned to shore. Ziad and others on board were placed in detention centers. According to information obtained by his family, Ziad was sent to Mitiga Prison, commonly known as Al-Raddaa Prison.

Controlled by a powerful militia known as the Special Deterrence Force, or Raddaa Force, the prison was originally established a year after Muammar Gaddafi’s fall. Initially tied to the military council in Tripoli, it later came under the Ministry of Interior’s authority.

Though it was officially dissolved by the Government of National Accord (GNA) in 2018, it was soon reconstituted as an independent entity: the Special Deterrence Apparatus for Combating Terrorism and Organized Crime.

Led by Major Abdel Raouf Kara, the group remains loyal to the GNA, which is hostile to the Cairo-backed Libyan National Army under Khalifa Haftar.

While the exact number of Egyptians detained in Al-Raddaa remains unknown, it’s frequently mentioned in disappearance reports. One such case is Atef Mohamed Habib, who vanished in August 2016 while holding a valid passport.

After his disappearance, several individuals contacted the family, demanding money in exchange for his release claiming he was held at Al-Raddaa. The family reached out to numerous official channels, but received no conclusive information.

Last Hopes

With no reliable information from authorities, many Egyptian families have turned to social media to search for their missing loved ones. Dozens of online groups have been created to share photos and seek leads. Among those searching is Abanoub Atef, cousin of 16-year-old Ibram Khaled Shamoun, who went missing in Libya in October.

“Ibram is my uncle’s only son,” Abanoub says. “He wanted to help support the family because of poverty, and his friends who migrated before him made it all sound so promising.”

The family only learned of Ibram’s departure after he had already left. Smugglers often tell migrants the journey will be free, with costs later deducted from their Italian wages. But once en route, Ibram called home requesting money. Upon arrival in Libya, another demand followed bringing the total cost to 420,000 pounds. The father took out microloans and sold livestock to pay.

Even then, an additional 30,000 pounds was requested, which the family didn’t pay because Ibram went missing.

They reached out to Egypt’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the public prosecutor, especially since others from the same village vanished during the same journey. But no answers have been provided.

According to Egypt’s Ministry of Migration, 14 governorates are the most common sources of irregular migrants, with Dakahlia, Beheira, Kafr El-Sheikh, Sharqia, Assiut, Sohag, and Fayoum among them.

A Complex Web

Migration researcher Amira El-Tahawy notes that since 2016, many drowning incidents have occurred, while other migrant boats are turned back by Libyan coast guards both official and rogue. Those onboard are often detained, delaying any clarity about who survived or perished.

El-Tahawy criticizes the Egyptian embassy’s handling of the crisis. Families rarely receive support unless the migrant is involved in a criminal case. In other situations, intervention only comes if the IOM or Libya’s anti-illegal migration agency pushes for deportation.

She adds that while the embassy made some detention center visits in November, the efforts were short-lived. Many families still cling to hope that their relatives are alive, held by non-state actors, and remain vulnerable to constant extortion.

No accurate figures exist on how many Egyptians are missing in Libya, but certain areas—like Abnoub in Assiut—have reportedly lost hundreds. Libya’s east-west division complicates the situation further. An informal agreement between the rival governments allows limited repatriation through shared border crossings with international oversight, but coordination is weak.

Both Egyptian embassies in eastern and western Libya have limited effectiveness. The western embassy reportedly operates just two days a week.

El-Tahawy refutes claims of organized kidnappings by armed gangs. She says most disappearances stem from disputes between smugglers and intermediaries, citing the Greece shipwreck case where survivors were threatened to continue luring others. When they refused, families were blackmailed.

Families also fall victim to scammers who pose as informants claiming their relatives are imprisoned, then demand money for their release. Desperate, many families pay, hoping for a miracle.

El-Tahawy criticizes Egyptian authorities for treating grieving families with disdain, blaming them for their children’s decisions to migrate irregularly.

Official Response

Following a protest by families of the missing, the Egyptian Ministry of Foreign Affairs released a statement confirming it is coordinating with Libyan authorities at the highest levels to determine the fate of the missing citizens and ensure proper action is taken.

The ministry said efforts are underway in both Tripoli and Benghazi through the Egyptian embassy and consulate, in coordination with Libyan institutions and relevant departments in Cairo.

These efforts reportedly led to the release of 131 Egyptians from a Libyan detention center on November 27. Their return followed intensive negotiations between the embassy in Tripoli and Libyan authorities.

Meanwhile, Libya’s Volunteer Rescue Room, which tracks missing persons, confirms a sharp rise in reports of missing Egyptians -particularly minors- over the past two years. Many, it notes, entered the country legally via Libyan airports.

The group adds that the complexity of Libya’s internal divisions and overlapping authorities makes it difficult to track detainees. Migrants may be held in facilities under the Ministry of Migration or imprisoned under the Ministry of Interior for unlawful entry. The presence of smuggling gangs and unofficial detention centers further muddies the waters.

Egypt may have sealed its coasts against irregular migration, but it has yet to resolve the economic pressures that drive its youth to risk everything. The sea may be calm but the fate of thousands remains in peril.

“If you had ever tasted grief, you wouldn’t speak of strength so easily… words are easy, and those who give advice are not like those who have lived it.” With these words, a bereaved woman confronted a guest at one of the psychological support sessions unaware that she was speaking to a survivor who had only just begun to regain her ability to stand in the face of loss.

A survivor who emerged alive from beneath the rubble after a massacre that took her husband, her son, her mother, her brother, and more than twenty loved ones leaving her temporarily blind and unable to move.

Hanadi Skeik, Director of the Consultation and Training Unit at the Mariam Foundation and Head of Psychological Support at the Samir Foundation, when she breathed life again, realized that her personal pain could become support for women who resemble her. She chose to walk the path of support not from a place of preaching, but from the heart of experience itself.

At Noon Post, we spoke with Hanadi Skeik about the lives of the wives of martyrs in Gaza as she sees and lives them daily amid an ongoing genocide that has lasted more than two years, during which the Strip lost nearly 70,000 of its sons, leaving behind incalculable grief and 211,93 widows according to the government media office.

These women experience loss as a full life of accumulating pains. The pain begins at the moment of the husband’s martyrdom and does not end there. Heavy responsibilities, displacement, famine, economic hardship, and insecurity follow, as if the departure alone were not enough. A life imposed upon them with all its cruel details in a time when there is no space left for sorrow.

The Phoenix Returns

Our guest lived a comfortable life with a loving husband in what everyone around her described as a “happy family.” She longed for twins after her firstborn and looked forward to Wednesdays to prepare the most delicious foods for her children at home until November 13, 2023, when the occupation targeted her family’s home where she had taken refuge.

She spent two hours under the rubble, unconscious, before regaining awareness in the hospital. The next day she learned that only two people came out alive from the building she was one of them. Everyone else was gone, and many remain under the debris to this day.

Despite the enormity of the event, she understood from her survival that she had a mission to fulfill. She felt that God had chosen her for this role, preparing her with visions she saw in her dreams and details she lived through before the massacre. From this, she decided to emulate the phoenix a mythical bird reborn from its ashes.

Hanadi the phoenix soared again after three months, when she began to regain her sight and mobility. Her first steps were toward an institution providing support to children with amputations and their families. There she met a woman whom she described as speaking from a place of “comfort and emptiness” because she had not experienced loss.

Skeik’s eyes fill with tears as she continues the story mentioned at the beginning. She replied to the woman: “What would you say if I told you that I am a martyr’s wife, a martyr’s mother, a martyr’s sister, a martyr’s daughter, a grandmother and aunt of martyrs; that I emerged wounded from under the rubble after two hours, nearly losing my eye and leg; and that my first steps were toward this institution?”

Shock took hold of the woman, and she asked in astonishment, “How can you talk with strength and support people? My relative who advised me to visit you told me you were very strong!”

At this point, Skeik felt she had to break one of the most important rules of her work. She explains: “One of the rules of providing service is that the specialist should not complain to the person seeking consultation but I had to tell her because she saw strength and therefore needed to know what lay behind it to realize she could do the same.”

The woman asked again: “Where did you get the strength?” Skeik replied: “From God Almighty, from the Qur’an I completed memorizing during the war, from His words: ‘And We will surely test you with something of fear and hunger, and a loss of wealth and lives and fruits—but give good tidings to the patient’ God gave us a promise that eases every pain for us.”

Skeik’s resilience becomes clear when her eyes water and her voice cracks with longing as she speaks of her beloved martyrs. She appears like a young bride when she says that morning coffee with her husband was one of the most important moments of her day, and walking with him at night in Gaza’s streets was one of the most beautiful things they could do.

The model of strength that Skeik embodies positively reflects on the wives of martyrs she supports. Some are ashamed because of how many they have lost, and she tells them: “We are not numbers this is an open wound in the soul. Take your time in your grief.”

The positive effect runs both ways; Skeik feels comfort when she supports the wives of martyrs, as helping others helps recharge her personal energy.

It is notable that Skeik engaged in work before complete recovery. She spent months treating her injuries, and the effects of her concussion lasted nearly a year. From this she advises the wives of martyrs: “Keep yourself occupied and begin at the earliest opportunity do not wait for improvement, for you are the one who improves and changes it. Life is as it is, and people shape it into happiness and hope or into sorrow and grief.”

Dimensions of Suffering

Moving from the personal to the general, we asked Skeik about the conditions of the wives of martyrs as she sees them in her direct work. She says the first aspect of suffering that appears for a martyr’s wife is the loss of a dear person—the partner with whom she lived a part of her life, with all its details and emotions.

She adds: “Alongside the sorrow, a woman loses her spouse’s participation in life and its burdens. The impact of loss varies from one wife to another depending on her degree of reliance on him before his departure. Some women depended entirely on their husbands for everything big or small, like shopping, securing household needs, and overseeing their children’s education. These women find it harder than those who shared roles with their husbands.”

She continues: “Those who relied completely on their husbands find great difficulty managing the household without him, especially since life now is harder than before, with much hardship like displacement and high prices.”

The war has imposed many new roles on Gazans, and all are borne alone by a woman who has lost her husband. For example, securing flour during famine was one of the harshest experiences for the widows who must support children, according to Skeik.

Shelter is another major challenge facing widows today amid widespread destruction and repeated displacement since the start of the genocide. Wives of martyrs have entered a cycle of searching for a place to stay for themselves and their children a grueling task due to the scarcity of homes, the lack of tents in markets at times, and the high cost of rent and tents, compounded by the pains of moving from place to place during displacement.

Skeik highlights another dimension of suffering related to living arrangements. Often extended families share shelter so the widow lives with her own family or her husband’s, sometimes with other relatives. This happens as she tries to build a new life. This closeness often eliminates privacy and creates many issues related to child‑rearing and family interference in the mother’s interactions with her children.

Interference in child rearing is one of the greatest concerns of the wives of martyrs, Skeik has observed, to the extent that entire consultations focus on this subject. Providing money and family needs is a nightmare for most widows, who find themselves suddenly without a provider or income source, many losing their home and some relatives who would have shared the burden with them had they survived.

Skeik explains: “The number of widows is large while services are few. Organizations operate in a scattered manner with no unified database or coordinated effort. So one woman benefits from multiple sources while another receives no help.”

The financial side is not limited to securing money it sometimes becomes a problem because much of it arrives as “orphan money,” with inheritance rules applying to the entire family. In principle, there are specific religious guidelines for managing such funds, with the guardian typically being the child’s grandfather or paternal uncle but errors happen intentionally or unintentionally.

According to Skeik, some mistakes include a wife avoiding asking her husband’s family about her children’s money out of embarrassment, or hiding what she receives from the guardian for fear he will take control, as well as the guardian abusing his authority over the money or pressuring her to marry her husband’s brother to keep the money within the family. She notes that such problems are less common during the war due to everyone’s preoccupation with their own burdens.

Some exploit the widow’s need and blackmail her this kind of exploitation happens to women everywhere. With the growing number of widows in Gaza, talk about blackmail has increased, with some exaggerating it as a widespread phenomenon while others deny it to preserve the image of society and the dignity of martyrs’ wives. So what is the reality of blackmail?

Skeik answers: “Blackmail falls under violence, and it certainly exists but it is by no means a phenomenon. I met women who were blackmailed with job offers or assistance in exchange for immoral requests, beginning as friendship and ending far beyond that, with attempts to convince them with harassing phrases like ‘you are still young and beautiful.’”

She explains that some organizations help women deal with blackmail through awareness and guidance for those affected, but there is no authority to monitor and hold blackmailers accountable, especially since some operate online from outside the Strip.

From her observations, she estimates that awareness and correct handling of blackmail stands at around 70%. She emphasizes that alertness against it is one of the main cautions she gives the wives of martyrs, especially since many are young with insufficient life experience. Blackmail is often the start of moral downfall, which is typically used for security recruitment. Moral collapse and threats of scandal are among the occupation’s tactics to recruit agents.

A particular form of suffering affects the wives of resistance martyrs, Skeik explains: “Many people refuse to shelter the families of fighters for fear of occupation targeting them, and it gets worse if the woman was known before the war for her religious activity or held a government position.”

She adds: “But goodness still exists in our society some secretly shelter her, permitting her to stay in the house under restricted movement so people do not notice her presence.”

It’s also worth noting that a group lives similar suffering wives of the missing. Skeik confirms this and adds that their suffering can sometimes be harder due to waiting and anticipating news about the missing, fearing that they may be prisoners undergoing torture, plus other religious and legal complexities between a martyr and a missing person.

All this accumulates on a woman along with responsibilities amidst sorrow she barely has time to honor. She may have been injured in the same event she lost her husband in, and possibly lost other loved ones who would have helped her had they survived.

Not to mention the harsh reality and the many people in need of help, widows among them, spreading the efforts of organizations and benefactors across great numbers highlighting the differences between life now and before for a martyr’s wife.

On this subject, Skeik says: “Before the war, the number of martyr’s wives was smaller. In my own close circle, 18 women lost their husbands. Now everyone needs help.” She adds: “The numerous widows, despite its hardships and consequences, give each woman a feeling that she is not alone, increasing her patience and endurance.”

What has been discussed so far is only part of the many burdens that begin with the martyrdom of the husband and continue, perhaps growing with more difficult challenges. So what are the appropriate solutions for building a new life in this harsh reality? What is their feasibility amid so many challenges? From where do widows draw strength and motivation to continue?

Skeik says: “As someone who supports martyr’s wives, I carry a bigger burden than before. We used to resolve issues with solutions like small projects for women. But today we need to help women psychologically so they can continue and provide, then focus on social empowerment which is more important than economic empowerment. For example, they must learn money management and proper handling of their children’s orphan funds.”

She adds: “A woman needs initial psychological first aid to absorb the pain, then psychological rehabilitation to recharge her strength so she can continue. Social life isn’t easy she needs to be strong to live for herself and those under her care. People help for a period and then stop, especially with so many in need. So she must take charge and learn project management and financial responsibility.”

In this context, Skeik is working on an integrated project that includes small enterprises to employ a number of martyr’s wives within their residential vicinity reducing the burden of transportation while providing an incubator that meets their needs. It includes a childcare center, a sweets-making project, a learning point, a sewing workshop, and a beauty salon all within a single geographic space where the targeted women live.

They can offer services, benefit from various resources, earn a salary and profit share, strengthening their sense of belonging, and eventually operate their own businesses independently.

She notes that financial aid and sponsorships for martyrs’ children significantly ease the financial burden and can be sufficient to provide decent support if managed properly. However, organizational efforts are scattered with no coordination in aid distribution, and many women do not know how to access assistance, especially with intermittent internet outages in some areas. Therefore, specialists must go into the field to find and assist those in need.

She believes that intelligence and social adaptability solve many problems such as cooperation with the orphan fund guardian and absorbing family interference in child rearing so long as it remains within acceptable bounds. “We must not make a woman live under the illusion of independence when she has no space,” she says. “She must walk two paths: independence and adaptation.

This is based on social intelligence creating privacy for herself without alienating those around her. She must be flexible and understanding because family involvement often stems from care for the children. She can accept it without implementing it if it undermines her position in her home and with her children.”

But child rearing itself apart from interference is difficult, especially under these circumstances. So Skeik advises mothers to seek a support figure for their children like an uncle or aunt who can be close to them, support them, and whom they can turn to.

She explains: “A mother may control her children in their early years, but as a child grows, the need for a father figure forms. If it’s a daughter, she needs a male figure for empathy. Here the support figure plays a role. The feeling of loss never disappears but companionship fills some gaps.”

Before the War Is Not Like After

The first thought that might come to mind about advice for a woman dealing with the consequences of losing her husband from grief to life’s hardships is to develop herself through education and work. Many widows used to do this before the war. Today, however, opportunities are limited and responsibilities are so overwhelming that attempts become exhausting.

For example, how can a woman enroll in university when she is caring for children in a tent, striving to provide them with water and food, her time and health drained by navigating aid organizations, cooking with firewood, and perhaps lacking a phone or internet to access online education?

Not only that, but the occupation contributes to the scarcity of opportunities. Skeik explains: “Opportunities are limited because the number of widows is large and the need is great. Most projects are relief efforts due to the occupation. If they allow aid to enter, they prevent what we need to establish employment projects like equipment for cooking or sewing to empower women.”

She clarifies: “Because transitioning from relief to development means that a woman runs her life and home without needing help from anyone which would reduce social problems. And that is something the occupation does not want.” She added that some organizations intentionally remain in relief work rather than development to ensure their continued operation, without regard for the interests of beneficiaries or society.

She explains that work for martyr’s wives should be divided into relief, development, and preventative efforts. The relief side provides necessary assistance like tents and winter clothing. The development side helps them become self‑reliant through small projects. Preventative work offers guidance and reinforces values and is essential, but cannot come before basics are provided.

On practical steps to help the wives of martyrs, Skeik says: “If I meet a woman shortly after the event or on her first visit, I give her the chance to cry. I don’t stop her I encourage it if she tries to hold back tears. After weeping and venting, she feels relief before any guidance from me.”

She adds that at the start of sessions she asks women: “What do you have?” to begin working with what is present, differing from one woman to another. Some have children, work, or education. The important thing is focusing on what exists, not what was lost.

She continues: “I always link pain with faith, for raising a martyr’s wife’s spirituality achieves psychological peace, helping her accept everything and think positively.” She emphasizes: “I don’t say to her: ‘Don’t be sad.’ Instead, we observe the etiquette of the grieving person with God. This balance brings great comfort.”

“Reframe the event within yourself,” she urges. “Ask yourself: Why did I lose my husband and my social support? Surely for good. God knows what is best for us. He tells us in His Book: ‘And it may be that you dislike a thing while it is good for you.’” Thinking this way is one of Skeik’s earliest pieces of advice.

She clarifies: “When you reframe the event, focus on what remains, and receive tailored guidance, your strength begins to emerge and this reflects on your family and your ability to fulfill your role.”

She also emphasizes that a widow should seek support even if she has lost close relatives. Support might be her relative, friend, or trusted psychological counselor someone she can turn to in times of hardship and who helps her shoulder the burden.

Results vary among individuals. Skeik says differences in resilience stem from the strength of faith and personality. Some women rise and achieve what partners could not. Others do not show the desire for change, and in such cases, work with them usually stops after eight sessions sufficient time to show readiness for improvement or continued dependence.

“My wife’s in labor, it’s her first child help us, Umm Saleh!”
It’s one of the many desperate cries that wake 60-year-old midwife Fiza Shreim in the dead of night. With urgency etched into every wrinkle of her hands, she grabs her worn black medical bag, throws on her clothes, and steps out of her white tent.

Guided by the beam of her flashlight, she walks through the rubble-strewn paths and scenes of trauma in Gaza City on her way to deliver life amid death.

Fiza Shreim, a woman known as the “Angel of Birth,” recounts the beginning of her journey. “It was the 1970s, I was just 13. The Israeli occupation had imposed a security lockdown in Gaza. My mother was in labor with my sister Jamila, and there was no one to help her. That’s when I delivered my very first baby.”
That experience led her to pursue formal training in nursing in 1979.

With a warm voice and radiant smile, she continues: “Ten days after I got married, I was accepted into a midwifery program not available in Gaza at the time, but in Sarafand, inside Israeli-occupied territory. I spent a year learning the foundations and practical skills of the craft.”

Shreim went on to give birth to 13 children of her own three of whom were killed in Israel’s war of extermination on Gaza. Today, she is a grandmother to 53 grandchildren many of whom she helped deliver herself.

Looking around the corners of her tent, which lacks the warmth of her former home, she says:
“I worked at Al-Shifa Hospital the only facility that served women giving birth from Rafah in the south to Beit Hanoun in the north. I practiced midwifery for more than four decades without pause.”

Retirement did nothing to slow her commitment to bringing life into the world. “Even after I retired, I turned a room in my house in Jabalia into a birthing room. I continued helping women give birth, comforting them through labor, and letting them hear the joyous cries of their newborns for free, purely as a humanitarian duty.

I carried on even after being displaced to Deir al-Balah more than two years ago, during Israel’s ongoing genocide in Gaza.”

According to the United Nations Population Fund, “Well-trained midwives could prevent up to 66% of maternal and newborn deaths. Women who receive continuous care from a midwife are 24% less likely to deliver prematurely and 16% less likely to lose their babies.”

Her voice trembles and a tear slips from her eye as she speaks:
“I had long awaited the moment to help my pregnant daughter deliver her baby. She had been counting down the days. But the Israeli occupation killed her, her two daughters, her unborn child, and 23 members of her husband’s family.”
Wiping away the tear, she continues:

“My eldest daughter lost her husband. She went into labor on the third day of mourning. I helped her through it. I was her mother, her midwife, and the grandmother to her children all at once.”

With many pregnant women unable to reach hospitals because of relentless Israeli bombardment and an airtight blockade, Shreim now helps them give birth in tents and refugee shelters. She uses only the basic tools in her bag, while Gaza’s healthcare system lies in ruins.

Recalling one of the most harrowing births during the war, she says:
“One pitch-black night, lit only by the streaks of airstrikes, a man came running, screaming: ‘My wife is giving birth, please help us, Auntie Umm Saleh. There’s no one else no mother, no support, and no ambulance can reach us.’”
“I didn’t hesitate for a second.

I grabbed my son and said, ‘We’re going to bring life from life.’ We recited the shahada, ‘There is no god but God, and Muhammad is His Messenger,’ expecting to die under the buzzing drones overhead.”

She clasps her gnarled fingers together, takes a breath, and goes on:
“We reached their home. I helped ease the woman’s labor, and the baby emerged with her cries drowning out the sound of Israeli shelling. I delivered the placenta and cleaned the child but then realized I didn’t have any surgical sutures in my bag.

I walked over a kilometer back home on foot to get the threads. I returned and stitched her up under the faint glow of a mobile phone flashlight. I thank God for every life I’ve helped bring into the world, using only the simplest of tools.”

As for what she carries in her medical bag during war, she says:
“I was displaced over 13 times. I kept only the essentials: cotton, gauze, gloves, sutures, and scissors. I had to leave behind my suction equipment and oxygen tanks in my home, which was later destroyed by the Israeli army.”

During this war of annihilation, women have endured double the pain surviving bombardment while fearing for their unborn children. Many have lost their babies because ambulances couldn’t reach them in time, or the roads were too destroyed to travel.

The Israeli military has not hesitated to kill mothers and their unborn children. Yet Auntie Umm Saleh continues to deliver hope—baby by baby—from under the rubble, amidst the explosions, and inside Gaza’s tents. Through it all, she lets the world hear the cries of life from Gaza.

As the sun sets each evening, fisherman Khidr Bakr and his young son Hassan don thick winter jackets, wave goodbye to their extended family of thirty, and set out on foot carrying a modest meal and a bottle of water. They walk nearly two kilometers to reach Gaza’s seaport the heart and soul of the city reduced to rubble by Israeli airstrikes during the genocidal war on Gaza.

Bakr has been fishing for over thirty-one years, inheriting the profession from generations before him along with its perils, including relentless Israeli naval harassment, which continues to this day.

“We leave with our lives in our hands,” says the weathered 40-year-old fisherman, his face and fingers marked by the sun. “The Israelis haven’t left the sea not even the one-kilometer zone that was supposedly agreed upon in this fragile truce. Every day they shoot, arrest, and chase us, even when we’re no more than 800 meters from shore!”

Bakr is one of hundreds of Palestinian fishermen who, despite the ceasefire following Israel’s devastating war on Gaza, risk their lives to earn a living after their boats were destroyed and their only source of income stripped away.

With a trembling voice, he continues: “I risk my life to feed my family and support my 30 siblings. The Israelis left us with nothing not a single boat, not a net, not even a hook from what we’d worked with for years before this war that shattered everything.”

With a mix of pain and pride, Bakr adds, “After the Israeli occupation deliberately destroyed and burned our fishing gear, we tried to rise again using haskat al-majdaf small, handmade paddle boats built from styrofoam, originally meant just for leisure. We’ve modified them to hold nets, and now they can carry up to four people instead of just one.”

When asked if these boats are safe, he sighs, clenching his fingers. “They’re not safe. It’s you, your God, and your luck. It could capsize in the middle of the sea or crash into something... but we have no other option.”

Staring at the choppy waters, he explains, “Every day, I cast my net and wait over 15 hours in the cold and dark under gunfire. I barely catch anything compared to before the war—no sardines, no crabs, no mullet, no shrimp. What I do catch, I don’t even feed to my family because it sells for over 200 shekels per kilo. I sell it to cover daily expenses.”

Asked if he’s ever been detained by Israeli forces, he tells Noon Post: “In 2011, I was arrested and interrogated for over 24 hours. The Israeli interrogator, in broken Arabic, said to me: ‘I want to cut off your livelihood from the sea, Bakr.’ Then they released me, but kept my boat for four and a half years.”

“Israeli occupation hasn’t deterred me. Fishing runs in my family. We’re like fish if we leave the sea, we die. Despite the risks, the arrests, and everything I witness daily, I won’t give up the sea or the fish,” he says with quiet defiance.

On the battered grounds of Gaza’s port, now covered in tents and rubble and permeated with the smell of salt and fish, 40-year-old father Rami Al-Kurd walks between fish stalls, asking about prices so he can buy some for his family.

“My son’s injury is what pushed me to come to the port and buy fish,” he explains. “The doctor recommended it as a natural food free from preservatives, which are more harmful than helpful these days. I bought two kilos for over 400 shekels in cash.”

He adds, “Before the war, we’d buy fish once a week and eat it with the family it was healthy and nutritious. But during the war, we haven’t tasted fish in over two and a half years because of the Israeli crackdown on fishermen.”

“Some 230 fishermen were killed while working at sea or in surrounding areas,” says Nizar Ayyash, head of the Fishermen’s Union in Gaza. “There are around 5,000 fishermen in Gaza supporting about 50,000 people. Their estimated losses exceed $75 million.”

Ayyash continues, “The fishing sector needs to be rebuilt from scratch. Over 90% of the fishermen’s equipment large and small boats, gear was destroyed during Israel’s brutal assault on Gaza that began on October 7, 2023.”

The occupation has decimated the sector’s infrastructure, including ice factories, solar power systems, night lighting, and even the fishermen’s rooms targeted by both warships and fighter jets.

Fishing was Gaza’s second-largest economic sector after agriculture. “Before the war, Gaza produced 4,000 tons of fish annually. Now, production doesn’t exceed 500 tons. Fishermen, once at the peak of their profession, have been pushed below zero,” Ayyash laments.

He adds, “The fishing sector is besieged from all directions closed crossings, bans on equipment imports forcing fishermen to try to repair their boats with the most basic tools.”

“Since the beginning of the genocidal war on Gaza,” says Dr. Salah Abdel Ati, head of the International Commission to Support Palestinian People’s Rights (ICSPR), “Palestinian fishermen have been systematically targeted when trying to reach the sea to earn a living.

Human rights organizations have documented hundreds of cases where Israeli naval forces fired on fishing boats, arbitrarily arrested fishermen, and, in some cases, threw them into the sea after restraining them while confiscating their boats and equipment.”

“These violations are not isolated incidents but part of a broader ‘war on the sea’ aimed at banning fishing and impoverishing fishermen,” Abdel Ati says. “Over 40 fishermen have been arrested, and 11 remain in detention.”

He notes that fish production has plummeted by over 95% compared to pre-war levels, disrupting the primary food source for thousands of families and worsening the effects of siege and famine.

“These actions amount to war crimes and crimes against humanity under international law,” Abdel Ati asserts. “Preventing fishing, destroying livelihoods, targeting civilians, and denying access to food are forms of systematic collective punishment prohibited under international humanitarian law.”

He urges, “The international community and human rights organizations must act to hold perpetrators accountable before international criminal courts, issue urgent protection orders, ensure fishermen’s right to access the sea, compensate the victims, and work to restore Gaza’s marine life.”

Despite Israeli gunboats and shrinking waters, Gaza’s fishermen continue to sail and brave the waves guided by a will that refuses to break.

After the fall of the Assad regime in December 2024, the first waves of displaced Syrians began flowing back into the liberated cities and towns. Thousands of families returned, carrying whatever belongings they could, driven by a powerful desire to reclaim what remained of their lives.

The scene was similar across many areas: destroyed homes, desolate streets, and cities weighed down by devastation, their features almost unrecognizable. Yet over the first year of liberation, the experiences of returning families revealed a deeper meaning to this homecoming one tied to belonging, memory, and the possibility of rebuilding the future.

Amid the hardships of returning, the first steps of clearing rubble and restoring homes, the efforts to reestablish daily routines, and the struggles to overcome adversity, Syrians demonstrated a profound ability to turn ruin into a new beginning. They began, with their own hands, to forge a new reality, despite the immense pressures they faced every day.

This report documents testimonies from returnees and sheds light on grassroots efforts to reopen homes and restore what can be restored, even in the absence of sufficient support.

Amid the scenes of destruction and the earliest signs of revival, the Syrian people’s determination to reclaim their lives stands out despite the crushing conditions and the weight of accumulated challenges.

Caravans of Return: When Longing Prevails

In the early hours following the liberation of Damascus on December 8, 2024, the movement of displaced Syrians returning to their hometowns accelerated remarkably. Families began preparing to return, even though their homes remained in ruins and the roads were far from safe.

For many, this return was a declaration of their unwavering attachment to the land and a desire to end years of uprooting and displacement.

On the first day after the capital’s liberation, families began collecting whatever items they could, responding to an inner drive that overpowered all obstacles. In the following days, practical preparations began: organizing group transportation, coordinating travel with neighbors and relatives, contacting those who had already returned to liberated areas, and assembling basic necessities like blankets and simple cookware.

Soon, organized caravans began making their way from Turkey, Jordan, Lebanon, and northern Syria. Some returnees in Lebanon even took unmarked mountain routes to cross the border, unwilling to wait for official convoys and choosing to risk treacherous paths to reach their homes.

These caravans included modest vehicles and families carrying what little they could. The tears of mothers mixed with children’s laughter, and the Syrian flag was raised amid chants of “Allahu Akbar.” This return was a communal experience a reuniting of a fragmented society.

There was unmistakable joy on the faces of those returning. Tears and smiles mingled, reflecting a mix of longing, pain, and hope. There were powerful scenes: an elderly man weeping with joy despite knowing his home was destroyed, a woman overwhelmed by memories, and children laughing simply because they were “going back to their country.”

For children who had only known Syria through stories and pictures, this was the beginning of their own journey of discovery.

These scenes carry profound meaning. Tents, hunger, and cold had not broken people’s spirits; their emotional bond to place remained unshaken. Returning wasn’t just about having a roof overhead it was about reclaiming identity.

As one mother who returned with her three children said, “I’d rather live in a tent in my homeland than enjoy comfort in exile. That’s my belief.”

The return of a caravan to the town of Kafr Nabudah after more than 12 years of displacement exemplifies this on the ground. Their testimonies echoed words like dignity, honor, beloved homeland, memories, hope, patience, tears, and grief.

The decision to return was not material it was emotional, rooted in identity and memory, a bid to restore ties severed by long years of war.

The First Return: A Collision of Shock and Hope

From the moment cities and villages were liberated, caravans of returnees began arriving one after another. The first return was a mix of shock and hope: homes without roofs, crumbling walls, and streets transformed beyond recognition.

In the early days, some families pitched tents atop the ruins of their homes. Others began repairing whatever rooms they could salvage. A recurring phrase among returnees was both painful and resolute: “We came back from the tents to the tents.” One returnee summed up the spirit of the moment: “Our house is destroyed, but thank God we’re back in our country, and we will rebuild our lives from scratch.”

Testimonies from returnees express a range of emotions nostalgia, hope, and shock. Children discovered their homeland for the first time with wide-eyed wonder, while adults faced the harsh reality of destruction. And yet, they also felt they were recovering part of themselves.

Umm Abbas, who returned to her hometown in Daraa after 12 years, said, “I was happy when I arrived, but I was shocked by the state of the country. My hope is that God will allow Syria to be rebuilt from scratch.”

Videos of the return show deep emotional loss. In one, journalist Sarah Kazem returns to her home in Homs and says: “They stole our lives from this house.” Her words speak not of broken bricks, but of the severed ties that once shaped an entire life.

Returning wasn’t just about visiting ruins it was about piecing together what remains of the self and salvaging a threatened sense of meaning.

Scenes of return paint a vivid picture of joy clashing with devastation. The thrill of coming home is often tempered by the harsh reality. An engineer returning to his village of Tal Mardikh found streets unrecognizable, houses stripped of their identity, and destruction etched into every corner. The long disconnect from the land turns the joy of return into a deep shock but also awakens a fierce desire to rebuild.

Returnees from Lebanon faced mixed emotions yearning laced with anxiety. After years of adapting to life in exile, uncertainty about the future loomed large. Yet the longing to return to the “embrace of the homeland” outweighed their fears.

This emotional tension is central to the return experience a complex mix of hope, concern, and identity.

Many returnees were resolute: they wouldn’t wait for international aid. Rebuilding their villages was their responsibility. For them, return wasn’t just about geography it was a journey into memory and origin. Syrians weren’t coming back to claim destroyed houses; they were reclaiming parts of their identity.

One man from Homs said, “I left Syria as a child and grew up in Lebanon, but my kids will adapt better here in their own country, with their school and their future. This is their home.”

In a video documenting the return of Chef Omar and his wife after 13 years of displacement, the emotional bond to place is palpable. The journey starts on the road to his old neighborhood, passing familiar yet altered sites, and culminates in a wave of disorientation and grief amid the wreckage.

But when old neighbors and friends begin to gather, the experience shifts from personal to collective memory reaching its peak when he reenters the house, where tears and flashbacks collide.

Tears of joy soften the trauma of the past, but do not erase the daily challenges of return. These testimonies show that returning is not a simple act—it’s an emotional and social transformation, filled with nostalgia, belonging, and the looming burden of uncertainty.

The repeated phrases in videos like “Alhamdulillah” and “May God have mercy on Syria’s martyrs” reflect the sincerity and depth of connection to the land, and the resilience needed to adjust to a country that has lost its former shape.

In one case, a girl returned to her old street after 13 years. She couldn’t recognize her home its familiar doors gone, cracked walls and shattered tiles telling the story of destruction. With a trembling hand, she filmed every corner and called her father via video, hoping he could recognize what remained of their building.

Abdul Rahman al-Tayyib returned to Damascus to revisit childhood landmarks his grandparents’ house, the balcony, the school bus stop reconnecting with the cultural and familial roots he had grown up with. Meanwhile, Abu Khaled returned to his city and neighborhood after years away. His eyes scanned the ruined buildings and battered streets.

With each step, nostalgia crept in memories of his old home, the scent of the street, corners that held echoes of his youth. He stood at the crossroads of past and present: the joy of return intertwined with the grief of loss.

This collision between memory and reality is deeply painful, but it also sparks a drive to rebuild not just homes, but identity and life itself.

How Families Rebuilt Their Homes

Following December 2024, the return journey to liberated towns and cities was as much about confronting memories as facing devastation. Returnees had to accept temporary homes, scarce resources, and persistent environmental dangers—requiring immense psychological resilience.

They were met with a tragic reality: destroyed homes, blocked roads, collapsed infrastructure, and the lingering threat of landmines and unexploded ordnance. Yet their return was an act of resistance a declaration that life could go on, even in the face of ruin.

As families arrived in their hometowns, they began rebuilding, often entirely through their own efforts. With little to no access to essential services, most found their homes badly damaged or uninhabitable, forcing them to live in partially destroyed structures. Community-led initiatives helped clear rubble, reopen roads, and revive small-scale economic activity.

There was no meaningful state support. Residents depended on personal initiatives and unofficial aid including financial help from relatives abroad. The first step was always rubble removal a grueling task, often done with minimal equipment. But these grassroots efforts signaled Syrians’ determination to breathe life back into their homes, regardless of the magnitude of destruction.

With limited tools and materials, many families began with a single livable room and expanded it over time. Individual efforts emerged, such as engineer Abdul Aziz’s project to map damaged yet salvageable homes to present to relevant agencies. Local leaders also played a role in easing the return and organizing rebuilding efforts.

Civil society groups like Unsar applied a “revivable zone” approach restoring a cluster of homes, schools, wells, and basic services, and supporting agriculture and livelihoods. Still, the scale of devastation made these efforts akin to first aid for a body with multiple wounds.

Some families used temporary fixes covering broken roofs or pitching tents over ruins. Others began rebuilding with salvaged bricks, sometimes crushing rubble themselves to make building materials due to the high cost of traditional supplies.

Stories like that of Zeinab Murad reflect this spirit. She returned to the home her family fled in 2013 and began rebuilding with the bare minimum, seeking shelter for her children. “When I feel afraid,” she said, “I read the Quran and put my trust in God.

I say, ‘Lord, I entrust you with my children and my home.’” Her words capture the emotional weight of return it is not the end of hardship, but the beginning of a new chapter in survival.

Life Returns Step by Step: Harsh Challenges, Unyielding Will

In the days and weeks following the return to liberated towns after December 2024, Syrians gradually began rebuilding their daily lives amid the near-total collapse of basic infrastructure.

The crisis extended far beyond ruined homes. Power grids were destroyed, water stations out of service, schools and hospitals in rubble, roads impassable, and local economies shattered.

Still, signs of life began to emerge. A few schools reopened, albeit with difficulty. Some shops resumed operations. Simple, personal efforts were made to restart clinics and classrooms, launch micro-projects to supply bread and water building a slow, fragile rhythm of life infused with hope. Women played a central role in reestablishing emotional and social safety nets, particularly for children and families, fostering a renewed sense of stability.

But the challenges were staggering: dysfunctional sanitation systems, unaffordable utilities, and constant threats from unexploded ordnance in fields and roads.

Returnees’ video testimonies captured these realities. In Homs, Hammoud Seif documented the shock of destruction and empty streets but also the beginnings of collective efforts to revive daily life.

Another returnee noted stark inequalities between neighborhoods some clean and powered, others abandoned and without services. Standing in the dusty, suffocating air, he felt the collapse of services mirrored in every breath.

In a video of a man returning to Syria after 13 years, scenes of destruction in Jobar and Harasta blended with moments of tentative rebuilding.

Many returnees said that coming back was about reconnecting with family and community ties ruptured by exile, and grounding their children in a familiar cultural and emotional landscape.

Return was not the end of suffering, but the start of a new, challenging chapter. With no transport, unusable schools, and constant risks, Syrians clung to the hope of staying seeing their return as a reclaiming of dignity, roots, and identity, and an attempt to raise the next generation in a homeland they could call their own.

In the end, the return to liberated villages tells a story of resilience of people determined to rebuild life, from the ruins of a homeland they never stopped believing was worth returning to.

In a moment as monumental as the fall of the Syrian regime, it’s difficult to separate the personal from the collective. These two realms long intertwined through years of exile and loss are now blending to the point where every individual story seems part of a grander narrative.

So I’ll write moving between the two between what I felt, and what Syrians around me experienced certain that Syrian readers will find reflections of their own journeys and joys.

After long years of despair, we Syrians in exile grew numb to the news. The red banners and urgent breaking news no longer gripped us like they once did. Bad news became routine, recurring events we barely acknowledged almost as if we had learned to coexist with pain.

That numbness deepened in Assad’s final year, the year of normalization, when we began to feel we had lost our homeland and perhaps the right to return. Longing for Syria became an ordinary, daily ache. We spoke of it like a distant land we could no longer see or change.

Then came the last week of November. Time stopped in front of our screens TVs or laptops streaming the news live, phones tracking social media, and the expanding swaths of green on the map. Sleep, food, and all human needs lost meaning.

The question “How are you?” was replaced with “How far have they reached?” Everything hinged on the regime’s next move.

Luckily, I didn’t sleep on the night of December 8th. I watched with my own eyes the most significant breaking news of all: “Damascus without Bashar al-Assad.” It was a feeling too complex for words a mix of disbelief, joy, and fear that it might not be real. I couldn’t hold back tears.

I immediately called my childhood friend, and we cried together, celebrating a dream reborn after years of waiting. Only then could I sleep again. This time, knowing that the journey of migration and exile might finally end, and that I had a homeland I could at least visit in the summer and speak of with my friends.

That morning, I woke as if the world had changed overnight. The streets that had embodied our exile for the past decade overflowed with joy. Syrians celebrated in every city across the globe, waving our new flag, hugging and weeping, sharing sweets, and rediscovering a happiness we thought was lost forever.

Most importantly, we chanted in the past tense: “Syria has lived, and the eternal has fallen.” A historic moment witnessed by the entire world.

Amid these scenes of jubilation, my father’s tears remain the most vivid image in my mind. He and his generation had lived through both Assads, dreaming of revolution long before my generation was even born.

While we exchanged a lighthearted “Mabrouk,” he and his friends greeted one another with “Alhamdulillah ‘ala salameh” thank God for your safety as if emerging from a long, dark tunnel.

That’s where our conversation began, trying to relive the moment through his eyes.

What was the first thing that came to mind when you heard the news? How did it reach you? Was there someone specific you wanted to contact immediately?
“Joy. Immense joy is what comes to mind when I remember that moment. I was drained from a full week of following the military operations.

I fell asleep and woke to my daughter’s tears telling me the regime had fallen... I cried like never before. A martyred brother stirred within me that’s who I wanted to speak to.”

As both a writer and a daughter, I have to pause here. My father is no exception—he represents nearly every Syrian household. He wasn’t the only one who remembered a martyr in that moment. Every Syrian family carried a name, a face, someone who had vanished but lived on in memory.

If we were to scroll through old social media posts today, we’d find ourselves staring at the images of those we wish could be with us now. This is a moment of joy, yes but one filled with absence. That’s what makes Syrian joy heavier, more layered than any other.

Speaking of this complicated joy, my father added: “We all postponed our fears, or even denied them.”

That hesitation was visible on every Syrian face in the celebrations. Despite the faint unease, each person had witnessed five decades of waiting. So I asked: When you think of fifty years of rule, which scenes or moments surface first? And do those memories come back differently now, compared to before the fall?

“Definitely the moments of my arrest, and times I had to hide or stay off the radar until the ‘security study’ was over... The fear, the anxiety at every checkpoint. The panic in my mother’s and father’s eyes.

In my beloved’s eyes. But also the pride. I chose to oppose the regime when I was just ten years old! At ten, I founded an organization we called ‘The Peace Pioneers,’ in response to the Baath’s ‘Baath Pioneers’... Can you believe that? I can hardly believe it myself.”

His words took me back to my own childhood—our childhood—when we chanted slogans not as heroes, but because we were forced to. We supported the regime, the unity of the nation, ready to defend it with little stomping feet and voices that didn’t understand what they were saying. Today, as we celebrated in the streets, my friend told me she could finally take her children born in France to visit their home in Homs for the first time.

They could now see the country she’d always told them about: their grandmother’s house, her food, the cousins, the gifts, the Eid games. Our simplest dreams had come back to life. The question of return without concessions suddenly seemed answerable.

We joked about passport renewal fees after the fall. One of us said he’d gladly pay whatever it takes, as long as it wasn’t going to Assad. Perhaps the most joyful moment was our unanimous decision: “This summer, we’re going to Syria, inshallah.” Invitations to visit every city flowed.

What can we offer Syria now?

Amid joy and cautious optimism, the fall of the regime marked a turning point a moment to answer: What now? What can we do?
Many of us, especially the youth, began looking for ways to engage. Those who had boycotted the regime had no excuse anymore. Those afraid of civil or political work inside Syria now saw an opening.

Civil society organizations operating from exile began exploring ways to shift their work to Syria. Political actors, too, mobilized. From the very morning after the regime’s fall, we began seeing new initiatives aimed at supporting democratic transition, preserving the revolution’s gains, and realizing its dreams.

In this context, we spoke to “Sara” (a pseudonym), a civil society activist who had worked in northern Syria and in exile. She recalled her joy when she saw vehicles bearing her organization’s logo enter regime-controlled areas, accompanying the liberation: “Suddenly, I felt justice might actually be possible.

When I saw those vehicles entering Damascus, I didn’t care who made it happen. What mattered was that we could now go back to Syria.”

In addition to her organizational work, Sara has begun thinking about operating from the Netherlands. She noted that many exiles had given up hope, saw no point in political work, or weren’t interested at all especially the younger generation who grew up in exile.

But after the fall, many became deeply invested in contributing to their homeland. As a law graduate, she says: “Now’s the time to give back.

What are we doing here? A lot of people still can’t return to Syria right now, but they want to help. We started small held a session on transitional justice. We’re beginning to create spaces for dialogue now that fear is gone. We’re asking: What are our priorities as a Syrian people?”

How does working inside Syria differ from working in exile?

“The priorities are different. Inside Syria, people are focused on economic and daily survival. Outside, we have privileges that let us move beyond that. We have access to organizations and European parliaments. We can, for example, support health and education sectors…”

A year after the fall, we all agree: the reunions between exiled Syrians and their families back home are unforgettable. We watch the videos as if they are our own homes and relatives.

Sara returned to her home in rural Damascus. What was once, in her words, an “impossible dream,” became reality. She recalled the despair of leaving, believing she’d never return and compared it to the feeling of coming home: “I visited our house. I had accepted that we’d never return. We left afraid, terrified. But we came back to people greeting us with ‘Hold your head high’... It felt like nothing short of victory.”

Today, one year after the regime’s fall, life feels like a new chapter. Syrians are trying to find their place in the broader landscape, redefining roles and responsibilities, searching for ways to contribute to rebuild what was destroyed, and to restore the ties severed by displacement. In every city and home, new stories are emerging: of reunions, initiatives, and small projects.

Today, we must rejoice despite the long road to justice. And we must acknowledge: our joy is a collective political act.

Khalid Ibrahim (a pseudonym), a journalist based in Zalingei, Central Darfur, must constantly change the satellite internet cafés he uses powered by Starlink to avoid detection by members of the Rapid Support Forces (RSF).

Ibrahim says he operates under false identities and avoids carrying equipment that could expose his profession. Instead, he often ventures out with just a pen and paper to conduct interviews with victims of abuses and local community leaders.

Occasionally, he inserts a memory card into the phone of the person he’s interviewing to collect photos, since he cannot risk carrying his own phone due to the RSF’s routine and aggressive phone checks at their checkpoints.

Like many of his colleagues, Ibrahim must rely on stringent personal security measures, chief among them absolute secrecy. In the absence of any institutional protection, and under the RSF’s iron grip on Darfur, even sources are being tracked down and interrogated for communicating with journalists.

Mounting Difficulties

Speaking to Noon Post, Ibrahim said being a journalist in Darfur today demands the ability to remain hidden, move quickly, communicate securely, and build personal relationships with sources. Revealing one’s professional identity, he warned, could lead to enforced disappearance.

He explained that the collapse of state institutions in Darfur including the judiciary has left RSF fighters enforcing their own version of the law. This has severely restricted access to information, pushing many journalists to focus their efforts on exposing human rights violations.

Currently, the RSF controls nearly all of Darfur, except for Tina, Kornoi, and Um Baru on the Chadian border, along with areas held by the Sudan Liberation Movement led by Abdel Wahid Mohamed al-Nur namely Jebel Marra and the locality of Tawila in North Darfur.

The conflict has decimated the region’s infrastructure, particularly communication networks, forcing residents to rely on satellite internet cafés offering Starlink access. These cafés charge by the hour and are often owned by RSF members or their affiliates. They are regularly inspected by RSF fighters, who scour phones for chats, voice messages, and videos.

Dealing Carefully with Sources

Ibrahim explained that he records information as a WhatsApp voice note at home before going to a café to send it to a colleague outside Darfur, who edits and deletes it immediately. Despite the risks, he insists exposing abuses is worth it.

Another journalist, currently based in North Darfur, told Noon Post that journalists face a litany of threats: murder, looting, abduction, intimidation, and arbitrary detention—all tactics used by the RSF and other armed groups.

He shared how an RSF crackdown forced him to be extremely cautious even with civil administration contacts. He cited the case of a tribal leader in Mellit who was arrested after his name appeared in a report first and last names reversed. He was held for hours, interrogated only about the identity of the journalist who had contacted him.

Due to this heavy surveillance in internet cafés, sources are now reluctant to speak out, fearing arrest. Journalists, too, are wary of digital tracking through the phones and apps they use to share stories, especially via public networks that are far from secure.

“Working as a journalist in North Darfur requires constant vigilance,” he added. “You have to avoid public appearances, claim to be in another profession, and sometimes even go undercover while doing your job.” He stressed the need for journalists to upgrade their safety protocols encrypting messages, hiding files inside inconspicuous media, and using stealthy apps.

The RSF detains people simply for having images or videos of the army or its allies on their phones or for posting troop movements on social media.

Powerless to Intervene

Websites like Sudan Tribune, Darfur24, Ayin, and Jabraka News rely on correspondents who operate in a deeply hostile environment. These reporters are the last line of defense against impunity. Some have paid a heavy price, while others remain behind bars.

One illustrative case is that of journalist Muammar Ibrahim, who was arrested in humiliating fashion while leaving El Fasher after the RSF took over the city on October 26, 2025. He was later paraded beside an RSF spokesperson and visibly treated with contempt just a glimpse of the violence journalists face.

Sudan’s state news agency reported the killing of its El Fasher bureau chief, Taj al-Sir Mohamed Suleiman, in his home by RSF fighters. Meanwhile, the Committee to Protect Journalists reported 13 journalists missing and at least three female reporters raped during the recent assault on El Fasher. Muammar remains in RSF custody for referring to them as a “militia” in a post on X.

Sudanese Journalists Syndicate head Abdel Moneim Abu Idris told Noon Post that journalists face such grave threats that merely revealing their profession is a danger, in violation of international humanitarian law. He noted that 33 journalists have been killed in the conflict so far 17 of them in Darfur.

Four remain missing, and two are detained by the RSF. “These roadblocks make it nearly impossible to uncover the truth,” he said.

The Syndicate reached out to the International Committee of the Red Cross to help evacuate journalists and secure the release of detainees, but received no response. The ICRC said it requires approval from both the army and the RSF approval that hasn’t been granted. In the meantime, the Syndicate has launched a solidarity campaign.

With the RSF fragmented into rogue groups operating without centralized command and the absence of any governing authority capable of enforcing decisions the Syndicate is effectively powerless to protect journalists on the ground.

The Last Line

Nyala, now declared the RSF’s capital under its parallel administration, is the most heavily militarized and securitized city in Darfur. One journalist there says he uses a charcoal trading business as cover to continue reporting on human rights violations.

He buys charcoal from displacement camps and villages, bringing it into Nyala. This cover has helped him build a wide network of contacts. However, he warned that even local communities can become hostile if they feel threatened by journalistic exposure.

Despite charcoal trading being profitable, he insists on continuing his work as a journalist. To him, documenting atrocities is a duty a way to ensure the world doesn’t forget the suffering of Darfur’s people amid a culture of impunity.

For 22 years, Darfur has been the epicenter of continuous conflict involving a complex web of actors from rebels to armed factions. This reality has granted perpetrators a shield against justice, especially with the total collapse of law enforcement institutions since the current war erupted.

In response, the RSF has tried to fill the void by establishing its own loyalist police forces and makeshift courts led by tribal elders, who place militia interests above all else.

This makes the work of journalists documenting war crimes and abuses not only dangerous but essential. In many ways, they are the final civilian bulwark standing between truth and oblivion, now that activists and human rights defenders have either fled or been silenced.

In the operating room of the Arab Ahli Baptist Hospital, 15-year-old Mahmoud al-Bahtini lies on a bed with his left leg amputated. His delicate body is wrapped in white gauze soaked in iodine and blood, while his father gently helps him sit up and wipes a warm tear from his right cheek. As he undergoes his first surgery, Mahmoud’s voice breaks through in a tone of sorrow:
“How am I supposed to start my life without my leg? Who will play soccer with me in the street?”

Mahmoud, now 15, recounts the devastating moment that changed his life. Speaking to Noon Post, he says:
“On November 1st, I stepped out of our house in al-Tuffah neighborhood to the street corner to pick up food from the community kitchen. It was just rice. Since we’ve been through famine, ‘the kitchen’ means food for the whole day. If I didn’t bring it home, my family of eight would go hungry.”

He runs his fingers over the spot where his leg used to be, feeling the wound.
“I didn’t even hear the Israeli drone drop the quadcopter bomb from above. I only felt the pain and saw the blood pouring from my body and leg. I still can’t forget lying on the ground in a tent outside the Baptist Hospital, bleeding, until hours later the doctors noticed me and gave me blood transfusions.”

As time passed, Mahmoud was rushed into surgery. His body writhed in pain and he screamed from the agony but it was too late to save his leg.
“I woke up in bed with a medical IV in my arm, and my body wrapped in white gauze,” he says, blinking.
“I was in so much pain in my upper thigh.” He pauses for a few seconds before continuing:
“I screamed and asked my dad: ‘Where is my leg?’ And he told me, ‘It was amputated above the knee... May God compensate you, Mahmoud.’”

The Weight of War

Mahmoud is one of over 6,000 Palestinians who have lost limbs, with children accounting for nearly 25% of all amputations during Israel’s genocidal war on Gaza. According to the United Nations, Gaza has become home to the largest group of child amputees in modern history.

During our interview, Mahmoud’s father, Saqr al-Bahtini, who is in his 40s, sat beside him, preparing a cup of tea.
“My son has now spent nearly three months confined to a hospital bed, unable to stand or take a single step without my help,” he says.
“Even going to the bathroom requires assistance. I feed him myself because his right arm is still undergoing surgeries it lost part of its muscle and is riddled with shrapnel.”

Mahmoud speaks in a trembling voice, his face heavy with sorrow:
“The occupation killed my older brother. The genocide took my leg. And shrapnel struck every part of my body.”
Wiping away a tear, he adds:
“I just want to play soccer again… to be able to walk on my own. Do you think my leg will grow back when I get older?”

Since October 7, 2023, Gaza has seen a surge in amputation cases caused by Israel’s devastating war, compounded by a severe shortage of medical supplies and prosthetic components due to the ongoing blockade and the closure of border crossings, according to the Palestinian Ministry of Health.

“Mahmoud is a man in a child’s body. He’s my right hand at home,” says Amal Rashid, his stepmother.
“His siblings are very young, no older than four. Mahmoud fetched water, chopped firewood, cooked food, and went to the market to get what we needed.”

With her hand resting on her cheek, Amal adds:
“Mahmoud is the son I never gave birth to. My heart breaks for his stolen childhood and the psychological toll he’s enduring every day since losing the leg he loved to kick a ball with. Soccer was his passion he dreamed of becoming a famous player like Ronaldo or Messi.”

When asked how the family is coping with Mahmoud’s psychological state, she tells Noon Post with a voice full of anguish and helplessness:
“Every day I visit him at the hospital, he always says, ‘Look, Mom... they cut off my leg.’ I try to lift his spirits, to tell him this isn’t the end. That he will continue his education and that we will do everything we can to get him a prosthetic leg. We pray every day for his recovery and for the chance to get him medical treatment abroad.”

The lack of prosthetic limbs and materials needed to produce them has deeply affected wounded Palestinians who now face intense physical pain and psychological trauma with little hope of returning to a normal life.

“Over two years of war on Gaza, the Ministry of Health has recorded more than 170,000 injuries and 6,000 amputations 25% of them among children and 12.5% among women,” says Zahir al-Wuhaidi, Director of the Health Information Center at the Ministry of Health in Gaza.
“More than 18% of injuries require long-term rehabilitation and physiotherapy, and may turn into permanent disabilities without proper care and services.”

He continues:
“There are 30,000 people in need of long-term physical therapy, rehabilitation, and support at a time when Israel’s policies continue to create critical shortages for the wounded in Gaza.”

“Israel is deliberately preventing the entry of medical supplies and prosthetic materials. Gaza once had a municipal prosthetics center and another in Sheikh Hamad Hospital for Rehabilitation and Prosthetics. Both are now out of service because they can’t access the raw materials needed to make prosthetics,” al-Wuhaidi explains.

He concludes his interview with Noon Post with a plea:
“We call on the global community to immediately open the Rafah crossing to evacuate the wounded and sick, and to allow the entry of medications, medical equipment, and prosthetic limbs. We also urge the dispatch of specialized medical teams to support Gaza’s health workers.”

Behind every amputated limb is a willpower determined to silence the pain—and carve out a path toward rebuilding a future.

In war-torn Yemen, fragile tents have become makeshift fortresses offering little protection against a bitter winter that threatens the lives of millions of displaced people. Amid dire living conditions, flimsy shelters and scarce blankets are no match for the cold.

Many are forced to light small fires inside their tents for warmth an act of desperation that underscores the daily struggle for survival.

In the Al-Naseem Al-Awsat camp in Marib, displaced Yemeni Bassam Al-Salahi lives with his family under the grip of the freezing weather. “The cold is severe,” he told Noon Post, “it causes colds and acute infections.”

He describes the conditions as uninhabitable: “The camp offers no real protection, and the available blankets barely suffice.”

“I try to warm myself and my children by lighting a small fire, though it’s extremely dangerous and could cause a disaster,” he added.

A Worsening Crisis

Yemen’s ongoing conflict is the primary driver of the worsening humanitarian situation. Economic collapse and climate shocks have triggered widespread food insecurity and increased health risks.

According to UN estimates, around 19.5 million people will need humanitarian assistance and protection services in 2025, including 10.5 million considered among the most vulnerable women, girls, displaced persons, and people with disabilities.

Najeeb Al-Saadi, head of the Executive Unit for Internally Displaced Persons (IDPs), told Noon Post that this year’s winter response plans are based on accurate field data, despite challenges in collecting that information in recent months.

Al-Saadi noted that the most recent assessment of winter shelter needs was conducted in the first quarter of 2025 and included updated data from liberated areas covering both camp-based and non-camp IDPs. A new survey is planned for the fourth quarter, pending resolution of logistical obstacles.

He attributed this year’s support gap to donor fatigue and diminished confidence that previous funding had delivered sustainable impact needs have remained unchanged despite sizable funding flows.

Al-Saadi explained that the UN has shifted from emergency responses toward sustainable and long-term solutions. However, some international organizations continue to operate under traditional emergency frameworks, requiring time to adapt to this new approach.

He also emphasized the need for governmental reform to enable authorities to lead and coordinate humanitarian efforts more effectively.

Al-Saadi confirmed the existence of structured communication channels and data-sharing mechanisms with humanitarian organizations to ensure aid reaches beneficiaries efficiently. He said priority is given to camps facing extreme cold or high population density particularly those in Marib, Al-Dhalea, and Taiz.

Regarding field challenges, Al-Saadi pointed to weak governmental engagement with the humanitarian file, lack of focus on displacement issues, and minimal governmental support to the Executive Unit. These hurdles have significantly hampered efforts to improve shelter conditions, despite the Unit’s previous achievements with limited operational capacity.

Displacement Figures

Hundreds of thousands of displaced people in Marib and other governorates live in devastating conditions. Estimates suggest that more than 2 million IDPs about 300,000 families are spread across over 200 camps, most residing in temporary tents that offer little to no protection.

The funding gap now stands at 95%, with only a fraction of the required winter assistance delivered. Over 217,000 individuals are targeted for aid, including half a million people exposed to near-freezing temperatures.

Saif Muthanna, Director of the Executive Unit for IDP Camps in Marib, told Noon Post that the governorate currently hosts more than 2,087,573 displaced persons across 299,965 families in 209 camps and displacement sites. Most live in tents and temporary shelters that lack minimum protection from cold and rain.

He added that recent field assessments reveal a widening gap in humanitarian response this year, with only 19% of needs met. Camps urgently require over 19,110 winter shelter kits and more than 10,045 blankets and covers, along with the provision of safe heating alternatives to replace primitive methods that have previously caused fires and suffocation incidents.

Vulnerable groups in these camps face heightened dangers this winter. Muthanna reported that Marib’s camps house over 21,652 individuals with chronic illnesses, 30,156 pregnant and lactating women, 8,415 elderly people over 60, 8,123 individuals with mobility impairments, and 9,632 with intellectual disabilities.

Additionally, there are 1,341 unaccompanied children and 3,624 children acting as household heads, all living under dire conditions.

These populations are especially vulnerable to severe health complications as temperatures drop especially in camps with limited healthcare services and high rates of respiratory illnesses during the cold season.

Muthanna warned that unless emergency funding is restored and urgent interventions are made, past winter tragedies will likely repeat, with increased deaths among children and the elderly due to extreme cold and lack of heating solutions.

A Deepening Health Crisis

Yemen is also grappling with a severe health emergency, exacerbated by a persistent cholera outbreak that began in 2016 and worsened in recent years due to conflict and the collapse of water and sanitation infrastructure.

Between March 2024 and August 2025, the country recorded nearly 332,000 suspected cholera cases and 1,073 related deaths. The rainy season is expected to further worsen the outbreak due to contaminated water sources and poor drainage systems.

Meanwhile, an 80% shortfall in international funding for Yemen’s humanitarian response has crippled the ability of aid agencies to implement essential prevention and treatment programs. This has fueled the disease’s spread, particularly among women, children, and the most vulnerable communities in overcrowded camps.

Ziyad Al-Ra’i, Director of Health Education and Awareness in Marib’s Health Office, told Noon Post that the severe cold has worsened the health situation inside IDP camps, especially among children, amid inadequate healthcare services and dwindling humanitarian support.

Al-Ra’i said respiratory infections among children are on the rise, alongside increasing cases of diphtheria, mostly affecting children under five. Malnutrition rates also continue to climb due to year-round food insecurity and the economic crisis faced by displaced families.

He added that health facilities in and around the camps continue to provide primary healthcare services but face acute shortages in medication. Some facilities once supported by international organizations have shut down, while others are operating with extremely limited capacity, insufficient for the scale of needs.

Mobile medical teams, which previously numbered over 45, have now dwindled to just four due to funding cuts, leaving a major gap in healthcare coverage for tens of thousands of displaced persons.

Al-Ra’i stressed the urgent need for essential medications and medical supplies especially pediatric drugs to enable health facilities to cope with the rising number of winter cases.

He warned that inadequate medical resources and organizational withdrawal have resulted in empty health centers and a severe shortage of qualified staff, further compounding the suffering of displaced families and crippling emergency response capabilities.

The latest Israeli war on Gaza has left behind an entire generation of orphans more than 50,000 children, many of whom lost their entire families in an instant. As calls intensify for sustainable solutions for their future, the community grapples with the challenges of adoption, which is largely prohibited under local customs and laws, leaving care institutions as the only refuge for these children.

Against this grim humanitarian backdrop, a deeper question lingers: how can a future be built for children who are left with nothing but memories? Who will carry the burden of life for those who have lost their only support?

Embracing Jana

In their modest home, Rami Al-Arouqi and his wife Iman Farhat cradle baby Jana, who entered their lives at one of Gaza’s darkest moments. After two decades of childlessness, the couple saw the war’s devastation and the thousands of orphaned children as a moral call rather than a personal choice.

“With the daily rise in the number of martyrs, I couldn’t bear seeing surviving children left alone,” Rami told Noon Post. “As a human being and a Palestinian, I felt it was my duty to open my home to a child who had lost her family.

We never had children, but for the first time, I saw a chance to offer a new life to someone who needed a warm embrace.”

The journey to find an orphaned child wasn’t easy. Rami visited hospitals and shelters housing surviving children. During one visit to the American Hospital in Deir al-Balah, doctors told him about a baby girl identity unknown who was pulled from the rubble after her entire family was killed.

Though Jana is now an inseparable part of their family, Rami still searches for any clue that might lead to her past or surviving relatives. “I want to know her story,” he says, visibly emotional. “Gaza doesn’t forget its children. There might be a relative out there looking for her. But if no one comes forward, I will be her father, mother, and protector.”

For Rami and Iman, taking Jana in wasn’t about filling a void. It was a human response to a collective tragedy. Jana brought new life into their home, carrying with her a broader message: in Gaza, love still triumphs over war.

Raising 36 Grandchildren

In a battered alley in eastern Gaza’s devastated Shujaiya neighborhood, a tattered tent stands against the winter winds. For Um Mohammed Alaiwa, it’s all that remains of home.

The 60-year-old lost five sons to the war and now finds herself responsible for 36 children her grandchildren and relatives’ children all orphaned and in desperate need of care and protection.

“The pain never leaves my heart,” Um Mohammed told Noon Post in a weary voice. “But when I see the children around me, I feel I must stay strong. I’m their last support. Each one of them has a story. Each one needs a mother’s hug. I try to be that for them.”

Despite losing her home and all her possessions, Um Mohammed refuses to give in. Every morning, she rises to collect firewood from the rubble, starts a fire, and bakes what little she can for the children. “We cook on open flames and search for anything to shield them from the cold,” she says. “Maybe it’s not much, but they are a trust I must protect.”

She and her husband live in conditions barely resembling life no home, no bedding, no warm clothes, and barely enough food. Still, they shoulder the burden of a small army of orphans who need everything. “We can’t provide proper shelter, good food, or medical care,” she says, her voice trembling.

“But I can’t abandon them. They are the scent of my martyred sons, and I promise them every day that I will stand tall.”

A terrifying question haunts her: “If I die, who will care for them? Who will hold their hands?” Her voice drops. “My health is failing, and I fear for them more than I fear for myself. I beg God to extend my life just for them.”

Despite poverty, illness, and despair, Um Mohammed stands as a powerful symbol of the resilience of Gaza’s women last lines of defense for entire families. In her tiny tent, pain is constant, but it is woven with boundless tenderness and a strength that seems greater than the war itself.

A Historic Surge in Orphan Numbers

Nidal Jarada, director general of Al-Amal Institute for Orphans in Gaza, revealed that the number of orphans in the Gaza Strip has reached unprecedented levels since the war began. Health institution statistics indicate that more than 50,000 children have been orphaned, with 34,000 now officially registered with the institute, in addition to around 14,000 who were registered before the war.

Jarada also noted a category known as “legal orphans” children whose fathers are missing but not confirmed dead. “Some may be prisoners or disappeared,” he told Noon Post. “We don’t include them in our official records, but their number approaches 10,000.”

Regarding adoption, Jarada emphasized that Al-Amal does not facilitate adoptions, explaining that “the vast majority of orphans have extended families.” As for newborns found after massacres without known relatives, he clarified that “they are not truly of unknown lineage, but their families’ fates remain uncertain due to deaths or disappearances.”

The institute places strong emphasis on psychological support, aiming to help children reintegrate into as normal a life as possible. This includes therapy, school and social activities, and various forms of rehabilitation.

Reflecting on the institute’s roots, Jarada said: “Al-Amal was founded in 1949 in response to the crimes and forced displacement caused by Israeli occupation. Seventy-six years later, the same crimes continue especially since 2023 so the institute continues its historic role of caring for children who lost their parents in this ongoing aggression.”

He described Al-Amal as “the oldest institution providing shelter and care for orphans in Palestine,” serving children from across Gaza, from Beit Hanoun to Rafah. Services include full housing, mental health support, internal schooling, vocational training, and economic empowerment programs for widowed mothers to help them earn a sustainable income.

The institute also offers monthly sponsorships, food and hygiene packages, and fresh produce distributions during wartime.

Jarada added that the institute is currently distributing winter relief kits to orphaned families, aiming to reach 33,000 children in the current phase.

The fall of Bashar al-Assad’s regime on December 8, 2024, did not mark the end of the suffering for tens of thousands of Syrian families. Instead, it opened a new chapter of anguish as they continued to search for any credible information about the fate of their loved ones who disappeared into the hands of the security apparatus and prisons.

As the prison doors opened, some survivors emerged physically depleted, mentally scarred while the vast majority remained unaccounted for. Photos of the released flooded phone screens as desperate families rushed to morgues, prisons, and mass graves in search of a clue, a trace, or even a fragment of remains.

Enforced disappearance remains one of Syria’s most sensitive and complex humanitarian issues. Since the uprising against Bashar al-Assad began in March 2011, thousands of families have been searching tirelessly for their missing relatives.

The formation of the National Authority for the Missing, the discovery of dozens of mass graves, and the availability of documentation from security branches and prisons have offered a sliver of hope.

Families are now cautiously optimistic about learning the fate of their loved ones and seeing justice served through accountability and the establishment of legal safeguards to prevent such crimes from recurring.

The International Day of the Victims of Enforced Disappearances, marked on August 30, serves as an annual reminder to push for truth, justice, and accountability. In Syria’s case, it underscores the need to place the issue of the missing at the core of transitional justice, and to ensure truth and redress for victims.

According to the United Nations, enforced disappearance occurs when individuals are arrested, detained, or abducted against their will, followed by a refusal to acknowledge the deprivation of their liberty or to reveal their fate or whereabouts thus placing them outside the protection of the law.

Between 120,000 and 300,000 Missing

The Assad regime met the 2011 uprising with brutal force. Tens of thousands have been forcibly disappeared since then mainly at the hands of regime forces, allied militias, and paramilitaries who funneled detainees into a labyrinth of detention centers across the country. Others vanished at the hands of armed factions in areas beyond regime control.

The Syrian Network for Human Rights has documented at least 181,312 individuals subjected to arbitrary arrest or enforced disappearance between March 2011 and August 2025. Of these, around 177,057 are classified as forcibly disappeared. The network holds the Assad regime responsible for nearly 90% of these documented cases.

The International Commission on Missing Persons estimates that approximately 200,000 people have gone missing in Syria since 2011 due to summary executions, arbitrary detention, abductions, chemical attacks, forced displacement, and other human rights abuses.

This phenomenon is not new. Bashar al-Assad continued the legacy of his father, Hafez al-Assad, under whose rule tens of thousands disappeared or perished in detention. Estimates suggest that between 120,000 and 300,000 individuals have gone missing since 1970, according to the National Authority for the Missing, established by a presidential decree issued by transitional president Ahmad al-Shara on May 17, 2025.

Syria’s prisons described as human slaughterhouses have long been execution sites where detainees were buried in mass graves without notifying their families. Over the past 14 years, the regime has also sought to shield its security branches from accountability by falsifying death certificates and relocating bodies, thus concealing evidence of torture and extrajudicial killings.

Investigative reports and data from organizations tracking detainees and the missing identify three main types of locations responsible for these crimes:

1. Security branches spread across provinces, notorious for torture and extracting confessions.

2. Prisons, including Adra Central Prison, Mezzeh Military Prison, Sednaya, and Palmyra Prison, alongside secret facilities in military zones and airports.

3. Military hospitals, such as Harasta, Aleppo, Homs, al-Sanamayn, and Tishreen. The latter is a central hub for issuing forged death certificates and processing the remains of victims from Sednaya, security branches, and military police.

The National Authority for the Missing

Decree No. 19 by President al-Shara established the National Authority for the Missing. It is tasked with searching for missing and forcibly disappeared persons, documenting cases, building a national database, and providing legal and humanitarian support to families.

The body has full legal and administrative independence and jurisdiction across Syrian territory.

The establishment of the Authority has been welcomed by the international community and rights organizations, although many acknowledge the immense challenges it faces. These groups emphasize the need for transparency, collaboration, and the inclusion of victims’ families in the process.

According to Mohammad Rida Jalkhi, head of the Authority, 63 mass graves have been identified as of August 18. The estimated number of missing individuals ranges between 120,000 and 300,000, though the actual figure may be significantly higher due to underreporting and lack of documentation.

Jalkhi asserts that the Authority’s work is foundational for transitional justice and national reconciliation. This effort requires cooperation from official institutions, civil society, victims’ associations, and international bodies.

The Authority has outlined a six-phase plan to be implemented over three to six months:

1. Launch national consultations on the missing.

2. Establish legal and ethical frameworks.

3. Recruit staff.

4. Approve a final structure and bylaws.

5. Define strategic objectives.

6. Present the Authority’s first public report.

The first phase took place over three days in July, dedicating two days to family members and one to civil society. International consultations were also held in Geneva, where foundational principles for cooperation were defined emphasizing Syrian ownership of the process.

Currently, the Authority is working with the Syrian Bar Association, human rights groups, and international experts to design the legal framework. It is also signing cooperation agreements to strengthen capacity in forensic science, documentation, and infrastructure.

Jalkhi emphasized that all agreements are conducted within the framework of Syrian sovereignty and international norms.

A Cornerstone of Transitional Justice

Post-Assad Syria is fragile and deeply fractured, burdened by 53 years of authoritarian rule. Despite steps to establish justice-related institutions, families of the missing and survivors continue to demand truth and accountability from all sides.

Interviews conducted by Amnesty International reveal that families want more than justice; they seek recognition, compensation, education, healthcare, and guarantees that enforced disappearances will never happen again.

Nawras al-Abdullah, a legal researcher at the Syrian Dialogue Center, argues that uncovering the fate of the missing is central to transitional justice. In his view, truth-seeking may even outweigh criminal accountability, as truth is the bedrock of genuine peace.

He stresses that reconciliation in Syria depends on revealing the fate of the missing, dignified burials, and reparations to families. These steps offer relief from collective trauma and lay the groundwork for rebuilding a cohesive, rights-respecting society.

According to the UN, transitional justice encompasses mechanisms to help societies recover from violent histories marked by grave human rights abuses. Its goals include acknowledging victims, preventing future violations, rebuilding trust, and fostering sustainable peace.

The Complexities of Enforced Disappearance

Accessing hundreds of thousands of documents and identifying mass graves marks only the beginning of a long, arduous path. Determining victims’ identities is fraught with challenges, especially given the regime’s systematic use of disappearance as a tool of collective punishment.

Post-conflict Syria faces numerous obstacles: the sheer scale of the crisis, fragmented data, limited forensic expertise, and resource shortages. Around 130 suspected mass graves remain unexamined.

The International Committee of the Red Cross emphasizes that resolving the missing persons crisis requires coordinated efforts by families, civil society, authorities, international actors, and donors.

In January, UN Syria investigator Robert Petty confirmed that hundreds of detention facilities had been documented remotely since 2016 each one with its own mass grave. He warned that it would take years to grasp the full extent of the atrocities.

The Syrian Network for Human Rights faces critical documentation hurdles. Perpetrators deliberately conceal evidence and deny detention, hampering verification efforts.

A recent report obtained by Noon Post shows that the fall of Assad’s regime allowed for greater access to previously sealed facilities, revealing thousands of new cases through survivor testimonies and forensic evidence. The influx of data has overwhelmed documentation teams.

Al-Abdullah believes that while identifying mass graves and retrieving documents is essential, DNA-based identification will be a long, costly process requiring advanced technical resources.

Global Precedents in Truth and Accountability

Around the world, enforced disappearance has been a core issue in post-authoritarian and post-conflict justice efforts. Countries like Argentina, Morocco, and Chile provide important examples.

In Argentina, after the fall of the military dictatorship in 1983, President Raúl Alfonsín created the National Commission on the Disappearance of Persons (CONADEP). It documented over 8,000 disappearances—though estimates reach 30,000—and its findings laid the groundwork for historic trials of former regime leaders. The 1984 report “Nunca Más” (“Never Again”) became a cornerstone of accountability and memory.

In Morocco, the Equity and Reconciliation Commission (IER), established in 2004, investigated abuses between 1956 and 1999. It succeeded in truth-telling and compensation but was criticized for not prosecuting perpetrators and failing to clarify the fate of prominent disappeared individuals.

Syria, now at the dawn of its own transitional journey, faces a massive task. Truth, justice, and healing will require unwavering commitment, cooperation, and courage to confront decades of horror.