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Cover image: Mohammed Abed Alhams / AFP
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Perhaps it is an unspoken truth in our Arab societies that a woman who has had six children, all of them male, is a lucky woman, a source of joy for the women around her. She is considered to have achieved something exceptional.
Whether we like it or not, these inherited dynamics are still very much present, even in seemingly ordinary moments like when a mother is congratulated on the birth of her child. Society still associates boys with prestige and continuity, while girls are viewed as a burden, albeit implicitly.
But here, in the Gaza Strip, where the Israeli occupation continues its genocide that has been ongoing for more than a year and a half, the concept of having sons takes on a totally different dimension.
What does it mean to have a son in Gaza?
Six sons are seen not only as a symbol of pride or continuity, but an indispensable force to confront the harshness of daily life under bombardment, amid destruction and repeated displacement. These sons perform tasks that no longer stand out as exceptional, as they have become essential for survival: they set up tents during each wave of forced displacement, collect firewood and light fires for cooking or heating, carry heavy gallons of water, and queue for humanitarian aid or charity kitchens to attempt to secure a meal for the children in the family. In this reality imposed by war, six young men in the household means more shoulders to lean on as a family tries to stay afloat amid harsh conditions that force them to endure arduous work and a grueling routine.
Did I say family?
What remains of a family when six of its children are killed at once? What family can remain united after such a traumatic incident? This is exactly what happened to the Abu Mahadi family in Deir al-Balah in central Gaza when the Israeli occupation targeted a civilian vehicle with a deadly missile, killing seven people, six of whom were the sons of Ibrahim Abu Mahadi.
This is the brutality of the occupation. Trying to reduce life in Gaza to a temporary escape from death.
They all died together
The brothers Ahmed, Mahmoud, Mohammed, Mustafa, Zaki, and Abdallah all left this life together, in a single moment. Death joined them in this final scene, leaving behind a mother’s ravaged heart. They left their mother to face a painful reality: how can life continue after losing six children at once?
Can you imagine the horror of a mother losing her six children? All at once? In one moment, in one place, one attack, at the hands of the same enemy? How it must feel for the mother of these young men to suddenly find herself bereaved, having lost the pillars of her life, those she used to lean on when circumstances got harsh? For a father to face an unfillable void, having lost his comfort, his support, his beloved children who were always around him, filling his home with laughter, warmth, and life?
Their father was frozen, like a statue, in shock, as he prayed over their bodies in the courtyard of Shuhada al-Aqsa Hospital. He bade them farewell in heavy silence, without shedding a tear, without making a sound, as if the weight of the loss had frozen all feeling.
The father, now all alone, says in a voice choked with tears, “I never imagined, not in my worst nightmares, that this would happen to me. That I’d lose my six children all together. I raised them with so much care, throughout all the stages of their lives, until they grew up and started supporting me. My pride and joy…”
“Can you imagine what has been done to me?” he asks, incredulous in his pain.
Who would even dare imagine what it must feel like for one’s entire family to disappear, and with them the comfort they bring? A family that relied on its six young men throughout all these ordeals has now been erased.
This is the brutality of the occupation. Trying to reduce life in Gaza to a temporary escape from death.
