'How many days until heaven?': Palestinians grapple with death and survival

In southern Gaza, Areej Ashour cradles her two-month-old son, Mohammed, in a makeshift tent.

The frayed canvas, set up on the remnants of their home, barely shelters her, the baby and her three daughters, aged two, three, and five years old, from the elements. When asked about loss and grief, she says she doesn't know where to begin.

The 26-year-old describes her world as shattered every day since Israel declared war on her hometown more than a year ago.

Yet the agony of two specific days remains unparalleled: the day her home was destroyed by an Israeli airstrike in December 2023, and the day her husband was killed by another in August, just weeks before the son he had been eagerly awaiting was born.

"Loss here is not just physical. It's a wound that never stops bleeding. You lose your loved ones, your home, and any sense of normalcy or hope," Ashour tells TRT World.

The recent killing of Khaled Al-Nabhan, the Gazan man who shot to worldwide fame early on in the war for his poignant farewell of his slain three-year-old granddaughter, who he called "the soul of my soul," garnered global sympathy.

The 58-year-old's death by an Israeli airstrike on December 12 served as a fresh reminder that countless Palestinians are grappling with grief and loss on a daily basis as the death toll continues to climb each day.

Unconsolable wounds

Like thousands of Palestinians trapped in an embattled Gaza wiped out by Israel, Ashour's loss permeates every aspect of her life.

The death toll of Israel's relentless shelling has exceeded 45,000 lives and the physical damage has impacted nearly two-thirds of Gaza's infrastructure, leaving many Palestinians experiencing a daily reality of grief, with deep emotional and mental tolls and unconsolable wounds that aren't given the chance to heal.

According to a Médecins Sans Frontières (Doctors Without Borders) report issued this month, "the violence unleashed by Israeli forces has caused physical and mental damage on a scale that would overwhelm any functioning health system, let alone one already decimated by a crushing offensive and a 17-year-long blockade."

The report added that "the mental trauma caused by the violence, the loss of family members and homes, the strenuous living conditions and the repeated displacement, represent a massive and urgent need, which will span generations."

Ashour says she worries for her kids and herself, as she now bears their responsibility on her own. Her husband Mohammed, 36, his parents, and his brother were killed in August while trying to flee their neighbourhood in Khan Younis.

At the time, Ashour was gathering belongings nearby. She rushed to the site of the explosion, only to find her husband's lifeless, bloodied and shredded body.

"It was the worst moment of my life," she recounts, her voice breaking. "To see the man who was my strength and my safety taken from me in an instant."

Since then, she has had little time to grieve. Her daughters often ask about their father, and she distracts them with toys or their infant brother. But their questions cut deep.

"Who will provide for us now?" Ashour wonders. Her husband, a street vendor, was their sole provider and his income barely helped them feed their little ones. Now, the family survives on charity and occasional aid.

Despite the odds, Ashour has resolved to resume her university education to support her children. She dreams of becoming a teacher, but acknowledges the uphill battle ahead.

'Surviving is a curse'

For some, the grief is even more profound. Mohammed Al-Dalsa, 38, lost 32 members of his family in a single airstrike on October 28, 2023.

His wife, pregnant with triplets conceived through IVF, was among the victims. Al-Dalsa says his miraculous survival from beneath their demolished two-storey house feels more like a curse than a blessing.

"I live with death every day. Sometimes I wish I had died with them," he says. He also speaks fondly of his wife Samah, 36, whom he married 17 years ago.

Al-Dalsa now cares for two surviving nephews, aged three and four years old, who were pulled from beneath the rubble of their home in western Gaza City after the fateful strike.

One of the boys, Mohammed, sustained severe injuries, including a fractured skull, prompting the uncle to push the wounded child for kilometres on a stretcher to flee to the southern parts of the enclave. He adds that the child desperately needs treatment abroad. Yet the closures of Gaza's borders have made that impossible. "I promised their parents I would protect them, but every day feels like a failure," Al-Dalsa says.

The emotional wounds of Gaza's children are equally profound. Ashour's five-year-old daughter, Naima, frequently asks, "When will I see Baba?" Her maternal grandmother's reassurance, "In heaven, my dear," only brings more questions.

"When is heaven? How many days until then?" The tent fills with tears and sobs as family members struggle to comfort her.

Similarly, Al-Dalsa's nephews repeatedly ask for their parents and relatives. Their uncle is never sure what to say. "I'm always torn between distracting them, and telling them they were killed by the Israelis, so they grow up knowing who their enemy is," he says, angrily.

Psychologists warn of war-caused long-term trauma for Gaza's children. Living amidst constant airstrikes, displacement, and loss is leaving indelible scars which they're unable to attend to amidst the collapse of the healthcare system.

The United Nations has called Gaza uninhabitable, citing not only the destruction of infrastructure, but also the collapse of the social fabric. Entire neighbourhoods are gone, families are decimated, and survivors are left to navigate a labyrinth of grief.

'Resort to God'

Hani Abu Mohammed, another resident of southern Gaza, lost his 22-year-old son in March. Taher was returning to their home in northern Khan Younis to get some essentials when he was shot down by a drone.

"The pain of losing a child never fades," Abu Mohammed says, speaking to TRT World from his displacement tent in Al-Mawasi as he flips through photos of his son on a charred phone salvaged from their destroyed home.

His wife, sitting beside him, shakes her head. "People say time heals all wounds, but that's a lie. His laughter, his voice—they're with me every moment. It's as if he's still here."

For many in Gaza, faith offers the only solace. "We count our losses with God. But that doesn't make it easier. It's a daily fight to survive, to remain human in the face of such inhumanity," Abu Mohammed says.

As Gaza's death toll continues to climb, the world's attention often wavers. Yet the stories of Areej Ashour, Mohammed Al-Dalsa, and Hani Abu Mohammed remind us of the human cost of this conflict. They are not just numbers. They are parents, children, and grandparents—each carrying an unbearable weight of loss.

In the words of Ashour, "We are alive, but it feels like we are only breathing to endure more pain."

This piece is published in collaboration with Egab.