Our Wound Is Small, My Son… 💔 There is a moment I experienced with my little son Adam during the war in Gaza that I still remember to this day. One night, while we were living under the sounds of bombardment and explosions, a blast struck near us. My little boy Adam was terrified. He ran in panic and fell onto his hand. He began crying uncontrollably. I tried to calm him down, but I could see how much pain he was in, and I was afraid his hand might be broken. It was a difficult night, and I couldn’t get him to the hospital until morning. I spent the entire night trying to ease his pain, waiting for the sun to rise so I could take him to a doctor. At the first light of dawn, I carried Adam and took him to the American Field Hospital in Al-Mawasi, Khan Younis. There was only one thing on my mind: Was my son’s hand broken? Would he be okay? But I had no idea that what I was about to witness inside that hospital would make me forget about Adam’s injured hand for a few moments. We entered the hospital, and Adam was crying from the pain. Then he began looking around. He saw a child who had lost both hands. He saw a woman who had lost one of her legs. He saw a young man who had suffered severe burns and lost his left arm. And there was another child who had lost both a hand and a foot. Children, women, and elderly people surrounded us. Some were crying. Some were screaming in pain. Others were silently staring at what remained of their bodies. The doctors tried to comfort Adam and make him laugh. But my little boy had suddenly gone quiet. He stopped crying and began staring at the injured people around him. I watched his little eyes. A child who had known nothing of life except war, fear, and displacement was now standing before other children who had lost their limbs. I looked at his injured hand. Then I looked at the children around us. And I felt a terrible pain in my heart. Just minutes earlier, I had believed that Adam’s injury was the greatest tragedy I was facing that morning. But inside that hospital, I saw mothers and fathers who would have given anything for their children’s injuries to be nothing more than a broken hand. I leaned toward Adam and whispered into his ear: “Our wound is small, my son, compared to the suffering of the people here… Let’s leave this hospital.” I picked him up in my arms, and we walked out. But the heart I carried out of that hospital was not the same heart I had entered with. I had walked into the hospital frightened about my son’s hand. I walked out thinking about all the children I had seen. The child who had lost both hands. The child who had lost a hand and a foot. The mothers waiting beside their children’s hospital beds. And the fathers who wished they could take their children’s pain upon themselves. I looked at Adam in my arms. And I asked myself: What kind of childhood are the children of Gaza living through? How can a little boy go to the hospital because of an injury to his hand and come home having witnessed so much suffering? How have hospitals become places where our children learn what it means to lose a limb before they even learn the names of their toys? I left the hospital carrying my little boy Adam. But I felt as though I was carrying the pain of every child I had seen there inside my heart. We entered the hospital because Adam’s hand was hurting… And we left with my heart being the one in pain. In Gaza, even when we go to treat a small wound, we return carrying wounds far greater than the ones we came with. 💔