A yawning abyss of horror

Watching the extraordinary women of Gaza bury the children who turned them into mothers, the horror of losing a piece of your soul is an image that will remain branded in our hearts forever. In Gaza, more than 15,000 children have died since October 7. The crushing, gnawing terror of not knowing when your child will be next is a form of torture the rest of us can only envision in our darkest of nightmares.

When you, a parent, hear about the death of a child, there is no way on earth you are not mentally putting yourself in that mother’s shoes. Against your will, your mind is cast back to the moment you saw that blue line on your own pregnancy test. You remember wondering if your baby will have hair. You mentally draw up a list of names and calculate how best to talk round your husband, who has his own list of names that frankly deserves to be flushed down the loo.

You recall watching your body swell like a balloon. You remember that foot poking through during those final weeks when time slows down. And you will never forget that first moment you meet the baby who grew inside you, or the moment of eureka when you see that he has a mountain of coal-black hair.

You never, ever dream that this miracle could ever be snatched away from you. And it is not until the first moment when your child faces adversity — that first ear infection, the time their leg gets caught up in the bike chain, or the haircut that makes them dissolve into tears — that is when you know that your heart is no longer your own. Your heart now roams outside you, free to walk head-first into a table or cross the street. And there is not a thing you can do about it.

As a mother, you know this. You know the memo when you take it on. You are prepared for the sleepless nights, the teething, the school runs, the nagging worry of whether or not they will make the right friends, and the petty sibling rivalry. You read all the right books and follow all the right parenting blogs. You are armed.

But you never sign up for living with the agony of surviving a carpet bombing or what can only now be described as a mass culling. You, the mothers of Gaza, did not sign up to have your heart wrenched away from you and crushed to powder like this. You should not have to endure this unending hell, a purgatory that can only end with the life of either you or your child. This all-encompassing horror — the daily dread of what the day will bring — is a fire no one should have to walk through. It is no consolation to you, who have either buried your children or know that it is only a matter of time before it is your turn to do the thinkable. But you, the mothers of Gaza, are in our hearts. Always. Our lives carry on, but a part of us will forever be cleaved to you.

I flip through my recipe books, trying to pick which cake to bake my first-born for his birthday, and I think about you, knowing the privilege of celebrating another birthday has been ripped from you.

I worry about whether my son will get an A on his biology test — and then I think about you, worrying about what kind of life lies in store for your son even if your dystopian hell miraculously draws to a close.

I panic about my daughter crossing the road when the traffic lights aren’t working, and I think about you, wondering if you are seeing your children for the last time as you leave them to pick up bread.

I stress about arriving two minutes late to pick up my other daughter and worry about her having to wait for me outside the school gate by herself. Then I think about you, tormented with the fear that the children you left safe and whole will no longer be there after you return with that bread.

I hug my children before they fall asleep and hear their heartbeat. I think about whether you are doing the same with yours, wondering if this will be the last time you will feel theirs.

Published in The Express Tribune, May 31^st, 2024.

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