In Gaza, the war will not end when the bombs stop falling. It will continue to hurt us from within, having left behind wounds that cut deep – wounds that are not reported in casualty figures or news broadcasts.

For my family, one of the cruellest reminders of this truth is my youngest son, Malik. At one year and four months, he has never seen his father. Anas, his father and my husband, was killed by an Israeli air strike while he was reporting as a freelance journalist in Gaza City. I was four months pregnant at that time.

When I discovered I was expecting just before the genocide started, Anas was overjoyed. We spent evenings dreaming together of building a future for ourselves and our children, of having a new home, of continuing our studies – him pursuing a PhD and I: a master’s degr

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