The Angels of Gaza: We must live to tell their stories 

Write my name on my leg, Mama
Use the black permanent marker
with the ink that doesn’t bleed
if it gets wet, the one that doesn’t melt
if it’s exposed to heat

Write my name on my leg, Mama
Make the lines thick and clear
Add your special flourishes
so I can take comfort in seeing
my mama’s handwriting when I go to sleep[i]

Motherhood defines my being and my essence. Of all the gifts I have been given, motherhood is the ultimate one, the gift I treasure the most. To be a mother is to care, nurture and protect the innocent life/lives you are responsible for, no matter the personal cost.

Motherhood determines how I experience and perceive the world. Every child I meet is an angel to me, and I call her or him, ‘Angel’. Every child is my child; I love children; they are my favourite people. I am not only a mother to my two daughters but to all other children.

And so it is as a mother that I have watched the continued Israeli bombardment of the Gaza strip - and persecution of people in the West Bank - since the Hamas attack on October 7, when “…two infants, 12 other children under the age of 10, 36 civilians aged 10-19, [were killed] ...[ii]

In my view, the killing of children by either side is unacceptable. Children are innocent.

The physical backdrop to the images of the Israeli bombardment could easily be mistaken for a dystopian movie set in a distant future.[iii] But this is no movie. No infrastructure has been spared. Huge concrete residential blocks have been bombed and some completely flattened. Hospitals have been bombed. Refugee camps have been bombed. UN buildings have been bombed. Schools have been bombed. Churches have been bombed. Mosques have been bombed. A theatre has been bombed. A convoy of ambulances was bombed.

Rubble, dust, destruction, and death is everywhere. Video footage shows rescuers -family members or strangers - using their bare hands to dig out injured people trapped under huge blocks of concrete. There are reports of dead bodies and or body parts everywhere. Dogs roaming the streets eating body parts of the deceased stuck in between the rubble. All this amidst the Israelis cutting food, water, fuel, medical supplies and electricity to Gaza as a form of collective punishment.

No civilians have been spared. Children have been killed, some burnt with white phosphorous.[iv] Children have lost limbs and had amputations without anesthesia. Premature babies have been left to die in their cots; the doctors and their parents forced at gunpoint to abandon them. Babies have been killed in their mothers’ wombs. Women and men have been killed. Entire families have been wiped out. Doctors and nurses have been killed. Ambulance drivers have been killed. Journalists have been killed. The families of journalists have been killed. The families of doctors have been killed. UN aid workers have been killed. Non-profit workers have been killed including Ahmed Abbasi (and his brother) of Gift of the Givers. Bakers have been killed in their places of work.

The avalanche of human suffering is immense. Mass graves are an imperative as the body count continues to rise.

Write my name on my leg, Mama
and on the legs of my sisters and brothers
This way we will belong together
This way we will be known
as your children

Write my name on my leg, Mama
and please write your name
and Baba’s name on your legs, too
so we will be remembered
as a family

The pace of the stories coming out of Gaza is fast and furious and has been made possible through social media technology such as Facebook, Instagram and Twitter.

The stories are intense. The scale of the deaths, injuries and devastation defies belief. It was and is the worst of times. The sheer numbers of civilians killed has angered and frustrated many as the US (and others including the UK) continues to blindly support Netanyahu in the UN Security Council and with billions of dollars in armaments.

The stories are hundred-fold; too many to mention in this article.

The footage of an open door of an ice cream truck, not serving happy children, but filled with the bodies of dead children.

The footage of a three-year-old child, whose mother has died, lying next to her crying baby sister, lifting her sweater to suckle the crying baby. The older sister knew only that her mother would lift her blouse and suckle the baby when she cried. And the older sister was trying to imitate her mother.

And then there is the footage of a father carrying the body parts of his two children in plastic carrier bags.

The footage of a grandfather, Khaled, holding his dead granddaughter, Reem, in his arms, crying out, ‘She was the soul of my soul.’

The footage of a grieving surgeon who had to perform amputations on his own son without anesthetic; the son died as the pain was too unbearable.

The doctor who must go and find out if his son is dead; he momentarily hesitates outside the mortuary, only to find out that his son has indeed died.

Footages of young children saying goodbye to their mother, their father, their siblings.

Footages of parents saying goodbye and holding their dead children wrapped in white shrouds.

The story by ambulance drivers of a young boy carrying his brother’s body parts in a bag.

Through all this pain and suffering Muslim Palestinians will say Allahu Akbar (God is great; God is greatest) and they will be saying the Salatul Janazah (funeral prayer). It is the footage of Palestinians grieving and praying at the body/bodies of their deceased family members that has inspired people. The Muslim Palestinians’ faith in Allah is unshaken. The curiosity of others has been piqued. People want to learn more about Islam and are now reading the Quran.

Interspliced between all these apocalyptic events are the heroic acts of the doctors, nurses, paramedics, journalists, and ordinary people who rush to assist the injured and bury the dead. Then there are the images of young children, looking after their even younger siblings.

All these stories have made a lasting impression on people around the world and have been an impetus to the protests on every continent and in most countries. Young and old people have come out in support of Palestine and against the unfolding genocide. There have been huge protests in New York, London and Washington DC even though Israel has claimed ‘the right to self-defense’. The latter has been disputed as Israel is an occupying force and therefore has no right to self-defense. Whilst the Palestinian have every right to exist an occupying power.[v]

A consumer boycott of companies supporting Zionist Israel has targeted Starbucks, McDonald’s, Zara and a host of other products.

In protest, transport workers in Belgium, Italy and Spain refused to load weapons destined for Israel.

Jewish voices against Zionist Israel and its bombing have increased in the US, the UK, Palestine and in Israel itself.

Many are learning about Palestine’s long history and culture; about the Balfour Declaration of 1917, about the horrors of the 1948 Nakba and the daily oppression the Palestinians are subjected to.

There has been a renewed interest in everything Palestinian; its flag, its keffiyah (scarf), its poetry and arts. The song ‘Leve Palestina’ has been sung at protest rallies around the world; this song was composed by Kofia, a Swedish-Palestinian band based in Göteborg during the late 1970s and early 1980s.

The cut watermelon has come to symbolize Palestinian resistance against Israeli tyranny as it reflects the colours of the Palestinian flag which Israel has banned.

The priest in Bethlehem, Munther Isaac, whose church has a manger depicting Jesus in the rubble and Mary and Joseph looking for him, has reminded us, that more than 2 000 years ago, a Palestinian baby, also had to flee south to Egypt away from an evil king, Herod, who was prepared to kill so many infant boys. And now more than 2 000 years later, it is once again a Palestinian child (children) who must flee to Rafah, close to the Egyptian border, even whilst being bombed en route or in Rafah itself.

It is the precious children of Palestine who have stolen our hearts; they are such beautiful and kind children. I will never forget the 4-year-old girl, whose mother had died, using her hands to funnel water so that her 2-year-old sister can quench her thirst. The 5-year-old-boy who said he wanted to go to school and one day after graduating from university he would buy everyone sweets. It is these angels that are uppermost in our minds, daily. Those children who survived have lost parents, siblings, extended family members. Some children are maimed with amputations of limbs. Many more children may die because of starvation and disease.

The Palestinian children have spoken to us. Some of them held their own press conference to tell the international community what is happening to them - but to no avail - Al-Shifa hospital where they were sheltering was destroyed by the Israelis. This is some of what the children said:

“Since the 7^th October we’ve faced extermination, killing, bombing falling over our heads. All of this in front of the world. They lie to the world that they kill the fighters but they kill the people of Gaza, their dreams and their future. We come to Al-Shifa Hospital to keep us from the bombing. …The occupation is starving us. We don’t find water, food and we drink from the unusable water. We come now to shout and invite you…. We want to live, we want peace, we want to judge the killers of children. We want medicine, food and education and we want to live as the other children live.”

On 31 December, the Gaza Health Ministry estimated that more than 8 800 children had been killed in Gaza with more than 5 000 children estimated to be buried under the rubble. The dead Angels of Gaza have gone and told Allah everything of what they experienced here on earth.[vi]

As a mother, I shall continue to speak about the horrors unfolding in Palestine every opportunity I get. I shall continue to tell the stories of the Angels of Gaza.[vii]

Write my name on my leg, Mama
Don’t add any numbers
like when I was born or the address of our home
I don’t want the world to list me as a number
I have a name and I am not a number

Write my name on my leg, Mama
When the bomb hits our house
When the walls crush our skulls and bones
our legs will tell our story, how
there was nowhere for us to run - Zayna Azam

Footnotes: